


Involuntary Spies

by Miranda_Glass



Category: Call Me By Your Name (2017)
Genre: Alternate Universe, Angst and Hurt/Comfort, Angst with a Happy Ending, Charlotte Gray - Freeform, Elio is a badass, Explicit Language, Explicit Sexual Content, France - Free Zone, Historical References, Jealousy, M/M, Oliver and Elio as dads, Oliver is a sensitive soul, Pining, Resolved Sexual Tension, Sex, Slow Burn, Spies & Secret Agents, World War II
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-10-02
Updated: 2020-08-14
Packaged: 2020-11-22 03:36:25
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 52
Words: 110,067
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/20867552
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Miranda_Glass/pseuds/Miranda_Glass
Summary: The story is set between London and France during WW2. Elio is Jewish but Oliver isn’t, for plot reasons. There is an initial relationship between Oliver and a male OC, which I will keep short and sweet, and without which Oliver and Elio wouldn’t be able to meet.The story was inspired by Charlotte Gray, but many things have been changed for obvious reasons.There will be angst because we are in Nazi-occupied France and Elio is a Jew, but I guarantee that the boys will have their happy ending.The usual warnings apply: the characters are not mine, I don't own anything but my own reinvention of their story.Please do not repost my work on other platforms without my permission.Enjoy!!!!





	1. Stranger on a Train

**Author's Note:**

> FANYS = First Aid Nursing Yeomanry was a British independent all-female registered charity formed in 1907 and active in both nursing and intelligence work during the World Wars.
> 
> Hôtel de Ville = City Hall

_“We with divided heritage see either side,_

_Involuntary spies who are upheld by pride”_

_Marion Strobel – Involuntary Spies_

Early 1942, London

The train was only half-full so I managed to get a seat at the back of the carriage. I caught the Piccadilly Line every day to go to work, if what I did at the Ministry of Information could be called that.

I briefly saw my reflection in the filthy window pane, before we entered a tunnel: I looked tired, which was hardly exceptional.

I must have said something, because the man sitting opposite me lowered his newspaper and cast me a bemused look.

“That bad, is it?” he asked, chuckling.

He was about my age – late twenties – with dark hair and expressive grey eyes.

“I didn’t mean to bother you,” I replied, but he shook his head and smiled warmly.

“A distraction from this,” he said, indicating the broadsheet he’d been reading, “Is always welcome. Peter Gregory,” he offered me his hand to shake.

I introduced myself and asked him whether he was on leave.

“I am a test pilot,” he explained. “My latest bit of equipment was a death trap called Hurricane. Heard of it?”

“Vaguely,” I said, “Are you allowed to talk about it?”

He grinned. “Careless talk costs lives,” he quoted. “Did you come up with this slogan?”

“No, but I know the man who did.” Before he could question me further, I added, “My lips are sealed.”

Gregory stole a glance at my mouth, and for some reason, that made me shiver.

“Perishing cold, isn’t it? Promise you won’t laugh if I tell you what I was wearing yesterday beneath my flying suit.”

“I’m not making any promises,” I said, wondering why I was feeling so carefree all of a sudden.

“I’ll take my chances,” he smirked and then counted the items of clothing on his fingers, “Roll-necked sweater, pyjamas, aircrew vest, long-johns.”

“You must have been sweating.”

“Colder than a witch’s tit”

We were silent for a moment, his eyes subtly interrogating mine.

The train ground to a halt.

“That’s my stop,” he said, and he quickly rummaged into the inside pocket of his coat, extracting a crumpled bit of paper from it. “Come to this party tomorrow night: nothing fancy, a literary gathering, but there will be drinks and music.”

I took the paper and looked at him, as he bundled up the newspaper, hat and scarf which he’d deposited on the seat next to his. He had already stepped on to the platform when he shouted: “Nice to meet you, Oliver.”

Home was a dilapidated flat near the Old Brompton Road: it was cramped and damp but at least I had it all to myself. It was an unwarranted luxury, considering the shortage of housing ever since the Blitz.

I wasn’t looking forward to a tepid bath and a dinner of kippers and gluey asparagus soup, but I never complained: my life was tedious but not half as dangerous as that of most men my age.

Arrhythmia, the doctor had said: a diagnosis that I had received with incredulity.

“That’s ridiculous,” I’d exclaimed. “I feel perfectly fine.”

At well over six foot and with a body-frame to match, I seldom fell ill and my only complaint was a spot of dizziness, now and then.

“That dizziness is one of the symptoms,” the doctor had explained. My heart was at no immediate risk but I would not be allowed to enlist.

My best friend, Luke Morris, who had been recruited from Oxford by section G, had been overjoyed.

“Come work with us,” he’d said, slapping me on the back. “Sir Dick is looking for someone just like you.”

“Tall, blond and devilishly handsome?” I’d joked.

“Vanity of vanities; all is vanity,” he’d quoted.

In the end, we’d reached a compromise: I was to be employed by the Ministry of Information and wait for my chance to shine and make my country proud.

My country: that was one rub.

Sally, the FANY I’d been seeing on and off for nearly a year, had thought at first that I was a German.

“You don’t look like one of us,” she’d said, “You’re too wholesome and your shoulders are too square.”

“My father was American,” I’d explained. “My mother left him when I was two and eloped with a French aristocrat.”

“I didn’t know they still had those. Didn’t they kill them all?”

“Not him, since he brought me up, in a manner of speaking.”

Sally had scrunched her nose and continued her third degree.

“Where did you live, in Paris?”

I told her that we’d settled in Poitiers for a few years until my mother had grown tired of Jean-Philippe and had taken up with an English country squire whose estate was in Norfolk.

“He insisted on marrying her and adopting me, so here I am, a man without a country, a virtual citizen of nowhere.”

She’d laughed. “Stuff and nonsense; you belong here, same as me.”

It was her warmth and generosity that I’d been attracted to, since physically I’d never felt anything other than fondness; not for her or any other woman.

And there was the second rub: my relationship with women.

During my globe-trotting childhood, I had been too worried about making new friends and adapting to every new environment than I'd cared about girls.

The schools had all been same-sex establishments and it was only at Cambridge that I had my first taste of the other side of the moon. Not that I’d yet had a taste of anything else: I was shy and oddly uninterested in carnal intercourse.

That era ended abruptly one night during a boozy party at the digs of one of the older students: I got drunk on champagne and slow-danced with Derwent, a slip of a boy with a talented mouth and deft fingers. After him, I’d been so ashamed of myself I’d not tried again for a long time. I went out with girls, I slept with a handful of them, but they did not scratch that particular itch.

The next man I had was a casual encounter and that left me even more depressed; I was also afraid, since I’d heard about chemical castration and the horrors that derived from it.

In conclusion, I was an unfulfilled man, both in my public and private life. That maybe explains why I decided to accept the invitation of a man I’d just met on a train, a virtual stranger.

****

Summer 1942, Lavaurette

The boy was sitting on the steps outside his house and he was sobbing.

He must not be older than six, seven at most, I thought. On the front door someone had painted a yellow star and dribbles of paint ran from the diagonal lines. I clenched my fists and took a deep, calming breath.

“What is your name?” I asked.

“Julien Duguay,” he choked out, “I want maman. Where is she?”

“I don’t know,” I replied. “Let’s see if we can find her, alright?”

The child sniffled and rubbed at his eyes with his small, grimy fist.

There was a paper bag with eggs and candles on his lap, and those meagre possessions made my heart ache; I smiled at him, trying to reassure him that everything was going to be fine.

“My name is Elio,” I said, “I’ll look after you.”

“But where is she?” he kept asking, as we walked towards the hôtel de ville.

I held his hand tightly and his tears subsided.

The waiting room of the hôtel de ville was filled with people waiting to speak to the disgruntled clerk. I forced my way to the front of the queue, uncaring of the angry protests and remonstrations.

“I apologise, Monsieur, but the boy is very upset, as you can see...”

“Very sorry, Madame, but it’s not for me, it’s for this child...”

In the end, I elbowed the woman to one side and took the clerk by the arm, pulling him forwards.

“This child was sitting outside his house and says his parents have disappeared. Someone’s painted a Star of David on the front door: what’s going on?”

The clerk glared at me and tried to shake me off.

“Let go of me,” he hissed.

I released Julien’s hand so that I could grab the man more tightly.

“You heard what I said. Tell me what’s going on. I heard about the extra trains at the station.”

The clerk was red-faced and his glasses had slid down his nose.

“I don’t know anything about trains. You better go to the police.”

I pulled him closer and said, lowering my voice, “you know and you won’t tell me, but I’ll find out one way or another.”

I shoved him away from me, reached for Julien’s hand and made my way through the same wrathful crowd.

The gendarmerie was on the other side of the village, past a courtyard where elderly men played boules.

We went through the double doors into a large anteroom. I rang the bell on the desk and a familiar face answered my call for help.

Bernard, a paunchy middle-aged gendarme, shook my hand and asked me what had brought me there. I explained about Julien and immediately I realised that Bernard felt guilty about something. He went through the motions of picking up and checking some papers from the ledge below the counter.

“Duguay, you said, hmm, yes, here. It was an order from high up.”

“I figured as much,” I said, “But tell me what happened.”

Bernard scratched his head and looked down at Julien.

“Listen, Perlman,” he coughed. “Why don’t you leave the boy here for a minute and come into my office?”

Julien’s face was streaked with dried tears and his eyes were wide with fear.

I leaned down and caressed his cheek. “I’ll be back in a minute, stay here.”

“The Vichy police came here, those bastards,” Bernard exclaimed, as he lit a cigarette. “Don’t get me wrong: I like the Marshal, but what can he do? He has no choice. These officers had a list of people in the region.”

“Jews,” I asked, biting the inside of my cheek.

He nodded. “We don’t have any new immigrants here; it’s not like Paris or Clermont. I had no idea the Duguay weren’t French; I always see them in church. But this train came from the south, Agen or somewhere, and they had to be on it.”

“What special train? Where was it going?”

He flinched and could not hold my gaze.

“You must have heard what happened in Paris: how they were rounded up and taken to a refugee camp.”

I said nothing, waited.

“Look, I only do what I am told; I’m just doing my job.”

I stared at him.

“You did it yourself, didn’t you? You arrested them.”

When he replied, his voice was shaking.

“I had to do it, it is the law. I couldn’t do otherwise or they would have got another gendarme to do it.”

“Why didn’t you take the children?”

“I couldn’t find them,” he replied, stubbing the cigarette out, furiously. “The one you’ve got must have been out and the younger one I couldn’t find.”

“But he must be three or four,” I said, “His mother wouldn’t have left him on his own.”

Bernard offered me a cigarette but I declined.

“I wonder where he is now, this other child,” I said, watching him closely. “And would you arrest him and put him on a train too?”

“You are a difficult bastard aren’t you, Perlman?” the gendarme exploded. “The thing is, we were going to be late for the train; the mother was sobbing and the father was imploring me to do something, so I pushed the little boy into the cellar and locked the door.”

Bernard was trembling and I felt faint with disgust.

“Give me the key and I’ll say nothing of what’s passed between us,” I said, quietly. “In return, you’ll pretend you’ve never found the children.”

He nodded, opened a drawer, pulled out the key and handed it to me.

I strode out, while his voice rang in my ears. “It’s not my fault, I didn’t want to do it, but I have to think of my family before I worry about any Jews or anyone.”

Did he realise he was talking to one of them, I wondered.

Julien was still sitting on the chair and his eyes lit up when he saw me.

“Let’s go find your brother,” I said, and took his hand in mine.


	2. Romain

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> This chapter is more about Elio but the next will be all about Oliver and their timelines will finally join. They will meet at the end of the next chapter.
> 
> Thanks so much for all the lovely comments. I will reply asap.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Laval was PM in 1942. He was much disliked by Marshal Pétain.

Lavaurette

“You will have to be brave,” I said to a crying Julien, as we walked back to his house. “Your parents wouldn’t want you to worry.”

“But where are they? Why have they gone?” he asked, in a wobbly voice.

I chose the least painful option: I lied.

“They had to take a short trip but they will be back as soon as they can,” I replied.

In the meantime, we had reached the church, and I decided on the spur of the moment that I’d better leave Julien there and make sure nothing untoward had happened while we’d been away.

“I’ll return in no time,” I said, but his terrified expression made me change my mind again. “Alright, but if I tell you to run, you will do as I say.”

He stared at me and nodded his head.

Luckily, no Vichy officer had turned up in the interim, so I asked Julien about the spare key: it was under a flower pot containing the wizened remains of a lavender shrub.

The house bore the signs of the Duguays’ hasty departure: the table was set for four, and on it was a carafe of water and a basket with sliced bread; on the gas ring was a charred stock-pot.

“Where’s the cellar?” 

“Over here,” Julien replied, showing me the door that led to the room in question.

“I’ll need a candle,” I said, and he went back to the kitchen to look for one.

“What’s your brother’s name?” I asked, when he returned with a short, greasy candle. “Jacob,” he said, as I used a match to light it.

We marched slowly down the dusty staircase into a room with a beaten earth floor and rows of empty wine racks against one of the walls.

I called the boy’s name and Julien did the same, but there was no reply.

We found him asleep in a corner, curled into a ball.

His brother kneeled down and shook him lightly. Jacob woke up and rubbed his eyes. He looked at Julien and then at me, with undisguised fear.

I waited to see what Julien would do: children were often unpredictable. He seemed to hesitate and then he kissed Jacob’s cheek.

“Where is maman?” asked the younger boy, eyes wide and still filmed with sleep.

Julien didn’t reply but he opened his arms and Jacob, staggering, went into his embrace. I was biting my lips in order not to cry. I bent down and clasped their wiry bodies in my arms.

They couldn’t stay with me or at the farm with my father because it wasn’t safe. Our family had lived in France for generations and my father had fought at Verdun, but I was certain that in time, even these distinctions would no longer matter. That time seemed to be fast approaching.

I had thought of several options and rejected them for one reason of the other, and had finally come to the conclusion that Madame Darel would be the best choice.

She was a former school teacher and a widow of means, she loved children and her house was big enough to hide them if the worst came to pass.

When it was time to go, I kissed them on the forehead and promised that I’d be back to visit. Their eyes told me that they didn’t believe me and that hurt more than I could say.

That evening, I went down to the Café du Centre for a glass of wine. The unlit streets were still awash with rain, but the brief summer storm had provided only short relief from the heat.

Gayral, the owner of the cafe, was chatting with a couple of men: one was Roudel, the ironmonger, and the other was Benech, a school master and great admirer of Laval.

“He knows what he’s doing,” he was saying. “By making friends with the Germans, he has salvaged our sovereignty.”

“Not much of a true sovereignty,” I intervened, “They tell him what to do and he does it.”

The discussion went on for a while, and I tuned out of it, until they started speaking of the RAF bombing of a factory in Clermont.

“An Englishman spoke to the owner of the factory,” Benech said.

Gayral snorted, “And how did he come to be in France?”

“They come by parachute, hundreds of them,” the school master replied. “It’s that bastard Churchill who doesn’t want to accept that the Boche have won the war.”

I hastened to change the subject, asking Gayral about his son, who was returning from Syria.

“He wasn’t tempted to join the winning side?” I asked, as I sipped my second glass of red.

The man wiped his moustache with the back of his hand.

“What, Free France? They are a bunch of criminals run by the Americans.”

“Poor Americans,” Benech scoffed. “They really don’t know what they are doing.”

He laughed, and the other men joined in. I smiled and finished my drink.

My office was on the first floor of a large building on the main street.

The receptionist, a short plump woman of about thirty named Juliette Bobotte, was also manning the telephone switchboard and I knew for certain that she snooped. Despite that, she was the soul of discretion and she’d never enquired why I received calls that asked for Romain and why these people were making such urgent assignations.

Mid-morning, she brought me my usual cup of coffee, and one for herself too, which gave her the chance to gossip a little.

“How is your father?” she asked. “Still at Le Domaine?”

I sighed. The farm was a sore spot for me: it was falling apart and we couldn’t find anyone to help. Father was too busy with his books to care about it, but he refused to move. Luckily, he had a devoted housekeeper who did her best to cook his meals and keep the place tidy.

“Yes, he’s as stubborn as a mule,” I replied.

“You should settle down and move there with your wife,” she said, “Is your fiancée still in Paris?”

We had moved from the capital soon after war was declared.

I muttered something and she smiled.

“You are not making much progress with that hotel are you?” she observed, pertly.

I gazed at the sketches I’d made and laughed.

“I’m dreaming of marble staircases and shimmering fountains,” I said.

“It was better as a convent; it should have stayed that way.”

“That was the past,” I said, “This is the future.”

She scowled at me and went back to her post.

The phone rang ten minutes later. “Romain?” a man said.

“Auguste,” was my reply.

“Ten thirty tonight,” he added, and ended the call.

Poor Juliette, I thought, she must be so disappointed.

I dined at home that night: grilled sausages, boiled potatoes and a bottle of Merlot.

When I was done, I smoked a cigarette, reflecting on my situation and finding it far from unpleasant; the only thing that was missing was someone to share my bed with. That hadn’t been a problem in Paris, where my inclinations were tolerated or ignored, but here in Lavaurette, I had to be extremely careful. My last tryst had been with a builder on one of my projects: it had been risky, but I’d enjoyed every second of it. Marcel’s big strong body had more than made up for the constant fear of being discovered. Now things were different: I had more responsibilities, more people that depended on me.

I went around the house closing the shutters then put on my heavy boots and my leather jacket. In my rucksack, I had already packed 4 electric torches and some spare batteries. I pocketed my cigarettes and a flask of brandy. I checked the time: it was coming up to ten.

“Perfect,” I said to myself, and headed out into the star-packed night.

****

London

The party was held in a flat in Redcliffe Square, which was a short walk from my flat. Strange coincidence, I’d thought, and a pleasant one, since I didn’t fancy taking public transport after a long day at work.

I felt like a bit of an idiot, turning up at a gathering of people I didn’t know, for an event I hadn’t heard of until Peter Gregory had invited me; still, nothing ventured nothing gained, as my stepfather used to say, and I very much hoped to find out whether my suppositions about the dashing pilot had been correct.

It was impossible to guess the shape of the room, crammed as it was with at least a hundred people and fogged with smoke.

I was about to beat a hasty retreat when I heard a voice I knew by heart.

“Oliver, old bean,” trilled Sally. “Are you following me?”

I kissed her on the cheek; she smelled of soap and Caporal cigarettes.

“It depends,” I said, “Can you get me a drink? I am already parched.”

She rolled her green eyes at me.

“Shouldn’t you be the chivalrous one?” she joked.

I looked at her, “Your dress is very pretty,” I said, and she burst into laughter.

“Flattery will get you anywhere,” she replied, then with a wink, “Not that you will take advantage of it.”

As we waded through the crowd, she stopped several times to introduce me to various people, one of whom was Hugo Prentice, the poet whose new book The Frontier was being launched at the party thrown by his publishers, The Flagstaff Press. He was a short, lean man with thin fair hair and a booming voice.

“Pleasure, I am sure,” he said, when we were introduced. He seemed already tipsy.

When we finally reached the drinks counter, Sally was whisked away by one of her colleagues, a redhead named Daisy, and I was left to my own devices.

Brandy in hand, I searched the room for Peter, but I couldn’t see him.

I hovered at the periphery of several conversations, most of them about the war, about France and how Laval wasn’t to be trusted, how the Marshal was nothing but a puppet in the Germans’ hands; when the talk switched to engines, tank-busters and cannons, I knew that Peter would soon turn up.

“You made it.”

He was wearing civilian clothes - a viyella shirt and a grey wool suit – and looked younger if a little tired around the eyes.

“So you like poetry,” I said, lamely.

His smile was bright and lit up his whole face.

“Not really,” he replied. “This is not really my scene.”

“What is your scene, flying?”

“That, and being out in the open air,” he replied, “For fun, I like to go to clubs, have a drink, listen to some good music. What about you?”

I wondered whether it was appropriate to bore him with the story of my life.

“I studied philosophy,” I replied. “Before the war, I was preparing to write a book on Heraclitus.”

His eyes went wide. “I wouldn’t have guessed,” he said. “I had you down as the athletic type; rugby, cricket, tennis perhaps.”

“A good friend of mine is always trying to entice me to go down to Woking for a few rounds of golf, but I have been resisting, so far.”

“Anyway, you seem in good shape,” he noted, staring me straight in the eye.

I held his gaze, but my throat had gone dry.

Suddenly, the music started to play: a jazzy tune that was welcomed by loud cheers.

Peter knocked back his drink and I did the same. I knew what he was about to say before he opened his mouth.

“Let’s get out of here. Is your place very far from here? Mine isn’t, but I share my digs with two other chaps.”

“Five minutes, and I live alone.”

He went to collect his coat and to say goodbye to the host, a floppy-haired young man named Michael Waterslow; I tried to find Sally, but she was busy dancing, so I let her be.

Outside, we breathed in the chilly night air and walked in silence, smoking. His hand brushed against mine, once or twice, casually, as though he hadn’t quite meant it to happen. I visualised that hand on my neck, on my chest, around my cock, and nearly gasped.

“You alright?” he asked, quietly. “We don’t have to---”

“It's here,” I replied. “Come upstairs.”


	3. The Twain Shall Meet

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Oliver and Elio meet at the end of this chapter: yay!!!
> 
> Oliver's POV
> 
> Next: what does Elio think of Oliver?

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Oliver's surname: yes, I went there!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!  
The Pink Sink was the (very gay) basement club at the Ritz.

Peter sat cross-legged in my armchair while I made sure the black-out curtains were drawn and the electric heater was on. The flat was usually cold but I was used to it and was never at home long enough to care.

“Do you mind if I smoke?” he asked.

“Not if you offer me one,” I replied, from the bedroom. It wasn’t untidy, but I removed the empty tea cup and the marmalade-smeared saucer and set them on the kitchen counter. I returned to the sitting room with a bottle of whisky and two glasses.

“I don’t have any ice, I’m afraid,” I said.

He placed the cigarette between my lips and smiled.

“Ice is for your sort,” he replied.

“What sort would I be?”

I poured an inch of liquid in my glass and two in his.

“Posh and public school,” he answered. “Well read, good with foreign languages.”

I was standing before him, uncertain of what to do with myself.

“Does it bother you?” I said, mesmerised by the way his cheeks hollowed when he sucked on his cigarette.

“It bothers Madame Fanon, my French tutor. She tries her best, poor soul, but my accent is ghastly.” He laughed and his eyes twinkled.

“I could teach you, but why are so keen on learning it?”

He bit his lips, took a sip from his drink. “If I ever crash, I should at least be able to make myself understood.”

My expression must have been eloquent since he hastened to add, “I am indestructible, especially on Halifaxes. I survived the Spitfires, this is nothing in comparison.”

I pulled on my cigarette, closed my eyes. I felt something brushing my calf and when I looked down, I saw that it was his foot.

From that moment on, things happened like in a dream: before I knew it, I was on my knees between his parted legs and he was kissing me, open-mouthed and relentless. The first time, we didn’t make it to the bedroom: he undid my pants and I shoved my hand down his; it was rough and hurried; I came with a loud cry; it had been too long and never quite as right as this felt, despite the suddenness of my orgasm.

Later, in my bed, we made love slowly, carefully. In time, I was to learn that he didn’t enjoy some of the things that drove me crazy, but at the start, I was overcome with intense erotic pleasure, which I had not experienced before in my life.

When I wasn’t with him, I had an almost perfect sensory recall of his skin as it brushed against mine, of his tongue in my ear, or his cock sliding between my buttocks.

I was convinced that I had fallen in love, and was about to tell him a million times, but the words wouldn’t come out.

Sally met him at party to which we’d been invited by Terence, a languid Lancastrian who worked for the Admiralty and whose latest conquest was Sally’s friend, Daisy.

Later that evening, she came up to me while I was getting out of the gents; she was tipsy but remarkably coherent.

“That’s what was going on behind by back,” she exclaimed, with a hint of bitterness. “I thought we were friends.”

I blushed and was speechless for a short while.

“He’s nice, but I don’t trust him.”

“You’ve only just met him,” I argued, a little offended.

She stroked my arm. “I didn’t mean it like that, silly,” she replied, “It’s just that, well, you are rather intense, and he seems more, how can I put it--- more aloof, yes, that’s the word.”

I didn’t pay too much attention to her observations, which is why I was stunned when, after an evening spent at the Pink Sink, he collapsed on my bed and said, staring at the ceiling: “I’m not worthy of you.”

“What are you talking about,” I replied, while I removed his shoes and socks.

He cleared his throat, stifled a hiccup and sighed.

“I don’t measure up to your lofty standards.”

I sat next to him and started to unbutton his shirt.

“I don’t have any,” I joked.

Peter chuckled and trapped my hands under his. “You do, my dear,” he said, “That band at the Ritz, you didn’t really like their music. You prefer Ravel or Beethoven.”

“I like both,” I lied, “They are different. Besides, I don’t mind tagging along and you love dancing.”

He released my hands and I continued undressing him.

“And you hate it,” he grinned.

“I am too big and clumsy, like a bull in a china shop.”

Peter tried to sit up but fell back on to the mattress.

“I’m dizzy,” he complained.

“You need to eat,” I said, “I’ll see what I can do.”

“Spam deluxe,” he joked.

“Pilaff,” I replied, kissing his stubbly cheek.

It was a rainy spring and we had been seeing each other for months when Peter told me that he would start dropping crates on to the French Free Zone.

“Please tell me it’s not a euphemism for bombs,” I said.

“No, I’m not doing that any longer,” he replied. “They don’t tell me what’s inside those crates, in case I get captured by the enemy.”

“How safe is it?”

“As safe as flying a plane over France can be,” he replied, with a tired grin. “But I told you that I am untouchable.”

My heart sped up and I tried to take deep, even breaths.

“I wouldn’t even find out,” I said.

Peter looked at me closely, narrowing his eyes.

“I told Borowski to get in touch,” he said, as he stroked my cheek. “But don’t worry, that’s not gonna be necessary.”

Flight Lieutenant Borowski was Peter’s closest friend and the top man in their squadron. His knowledge of engines was unrivalled, according to Peter, and he was as familiar with German planes as he was with British ones.

I was to hear his voice a week later.

It was a mild sunny afternoon, and I’d just returned from the Ministry when the phone rang.

After the customary introductions, he went straight to the point.

“Greg has gone missing,” he said. It took me a moment to realise he was speaking of Peter. He took my silence for a question. “He was with the Halifax chaps.”

“Wasn’t he in a Halifax too?”

“No, a Lysander, a single-engine monoplane,” he explained, “He’d been training to pick up personnel. Those tiny things can land on a strip of grass.”

Peter had lied to me, I thought, but didn’t say.

“Do you know if he’s alive?”

He sighed. “I’m afraid I don’t. I have only second-hand information, which amounts to him not returning from his mission. He might not have found the person he was supposed to bring back and if he waited too long, he might have run out of fuel.”

“Is there anyone I can call to get more information?”

“The squadron leader is a chap called Wetherby; I have his number here.”

I thanked him, said goodbye and put the receiver down, feeling numb and empty.

Wetherby didn’t know much more, and what he did know – the flight details and locations – he wasn’t at liberty to divulge.

Two days later, I received an anonymous note, with the intimation that I should destroy it after reading it.

“Gregory’s contact in France is the owner of a garage in Clermont Ferrand. His name’s Chollet, but he goes by the alias Valois.”

I tore the paper into pieces and flushed it down the toilet.

“I want to go to France,” I told Luke.

We were at his club in St. James’s and he had ordered a bottle of excellent Montrachet. I kept being surprised at the quality of wine when the food was so subpar.

“No news of your friend?” he asked, cutting his lamb cutlet into strips.

We seldom discussed my personal life, but I was certain that he knew all about my inclinations. He’d been to boarding school so he was aware of what went on behind closed doors.

“Nothing,” I replied. “Would you be able to get me an appointment with one of your superiors?”

“Have I not been pestering you for months?” he joked. “Your talents are wasted at the Ministry. You speak French better than a native and you look German: no one would suspect you of being a spy.”

“I doubt they’d go as far as that,” I said, “But perhaps I could help with some deliveries. I’ve heard that they need people on a short-term basis.”

He nodded his head.

“Small parcels that have to be delivered by hand,” he replied. “The network headquarters are based near Limoges, I believe, but my information could be outdated. I will make sure you receive an invitation in the next few days.”

“How deliciously formal,” I commented.

“We like to do everything by the book,” Luke said, spearing a soggy potato. “We are not savages, yet.”

Two days later, I received a brown foolscap envelope. Inside it was a letter headed The War Office which invited me to visit a Mr Jackson at an address in central London. It was a West End hotel and the appointment was for the following Thursday at 6pm.

On the day in question, I arrived on time and was introduced into an old-fashioned study room, with plenty of mahogany and maroon leather. Behind a sturdy desk, Mr Jackson – surely not his real name – surveyed me with benign curiosity.

“You are punctual,” he remarked, “Jolly good. Please take a seat.”

I did as told and took a quick look at him, trying not to stare: he was bald and pale, with the countenance of a shrewd garden gnome.

“First things first,” he started, “Let me put you in the picture. I work for Section G which is a subsidiary of the War Office. Our department is concerned with France. We help set up networks to support the Resistance. Another thing we do is sabotage. This is volunteer work, so we don’t look too closely at the motivations of those who collaborate with us. Some may be crossed in love,” he said, arching his eyebrows, “But that’s irrelevant to us, as long as they are discreet and reliable.”

I didn’t say anything so he continued.

“We won’t know whether you are suited to the job until we’ve trained you, but I’d like to ask you a few questions first.”

He enquired about my family, my health situation, my studies, and finally about France.

“What do you think about Laval?”

“I’m not sure I understand what his game plan is but I find him sinister.”

“The problem is that they believe the Germans are going to win the war and that by collaborating with them, they will get a place at the top table. It’s the Vichy philosophy. What do you think of that?”

“You don’t make a pact with the devil and hope for the best,” I replied.

He smiled.

“I see that we understand each other.”

We talked some more and by the end of our conversation, he seemed favourably impressed.

“Are you going to take me on?” I enquired.

“I don’t see why not,” he replied. “You will have to see the psychiatrist and undergo a formal assessment, but you will hear from us soon.”

The next few weeks were gruelling: first, I was grilled by the psychiatrist – a dour old man named Burch – who showed me inkblots, made me talk about my mother and tested me on word association; I was then sent to a manor in Sussex for cross-country runs and obstacle courses; after that came the training on how to resist interrogation and how to spot German counter-intelligence - the Abwehr; finally, I was taken to Manchester to train for parachute jumping.

I was given a new haircut - cropped at the back, longer at the front – and a cover back story which was partially true – a heart problem which compelled me to stay at home and work as a farm-hand. I was also given a new identity: my first name was easily translatable into French – Olivier instead of Oliver – and my last was a tribute to a childhood friend from Poitiers, a boy called Armand.

As Olivier Armand, I was tasked with accompanying another operative code name Yves to a place called Uzerche and after that, I was to deliver a packet of wireless crystals to an agent based near Clermont. After that, I was going to be picked up and flown back to England.

My plan was to find a way to stay in France, locate Peter and return with him.

It was summer when I was deemed ready to go on my mission. Yves was a nice enough man, but his French was more Birmingham than Birmingham, so I instructed him to talk as little as possible.

We were flying in a Whitley which smelled of oil and machinery, and I was very glad of the mild weather. I recalled Peter telling me how cold it was up in the air, and I felt sick with nostalgia: I longed for his touch, his voice, his sense of humour.

The journey seemed to be over in a matter of minutes and in no time, the crates were pushed out of the plane; after them, it would be our turn.

Yves wished me good luck and shook my hand.

The sergeant patted my back and hurled me through the floor.

The descent was terrifying but thankfully fast and the ground hit me while I was still swinging. Earth and grass smacked my face and entered my mouth but when I finally gathered myself up, bit by bit, and looked at the beams of torchlight in the vast open fields, I felt no fear but a surge of happiness.

Three men came to load the crated onto a horse-driven cart.

They didn’t introduce themselves, but instructed us to hurry up and help them.

We worked as swiftly as we could and once it was all done, we were taken to a farm, where we were going to have dinner.

Once inside, we were at liberty to speak to our hosts, which answered to the names of Romain, Octave and Auguste.

The latter was the only one to look like he belonged to the region: he was solidly built with a shaggy moustache and grey hair.

Octave was in his late twenties, dark, with a sardonic face, while Romain looked like a schoolboy: tall, willowy and with the most beautiful green eyes I’d ever seen.

It was he who addressed me first.

“There are hardly any Germans here,” he said, as he drank from a flask, “But you have to watch out for the Vichy police and the gendarmes.”

“Yes, we were told as much,” I replied.

I wondered how old he really was, and he must have read my mind.

“I’m twenty-four and I’m an architect,” he said, and there was something daring in his stare, but maybe I was just imagining it.

He watched me in silence as I ate my dinner.

“You don’t look British,” he said, after a while.

“You don’t look twenty-four.”

Romain laughed, a wheezy, breathless laugh that made me smile in return.


	4. Le Domaine

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> What do Elio and Oliver think of each other?  
Plus, enter Samuel Perlman.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Arno Breker was Hitler's favourite sculptor
> 
> Concert pianist Alfred Cortot collaborated with the Vichy regime.
> 
> Characters reminder: Octave and Auguste are part of the Resistance, like Elio (Romain).  
Yves is the agent Oliver has been paired with.

I had drunk too much, that was the reason – or at least that’s what I told myself.

We had left Yves and Olivier at the farm, and I doubted I’d make it all the way to Lavaurette in the state I was in.

“You shouldn’t confide in them,” said Octave, as we cycled side by side. “They are foreigners, after all.”

“Wasn’t anything important,” I muttered, angry at myself. “Why did they send that oaf undercover? He sticks out a mile.”

Octave chuckled. “You know who he reminds me of, that bastard Abetz.”

The German Ambassador to occupied France, Otto Abetz, was in fact tall and blond, but that’s where the resemblance ended. Olivier was like one of Arno Breker’s statues: a compendium of physical perfection. I couldn’t fathom why he wasn’t an officer leading his troupes to victory. He had the arrogance and the typical British rudeness which masquerades as generic politeness.

“Bloody _rosbif_,” I grunted, and my bike swerved dangerously close to Octave’s.

“Careful there!” he protested.

“I’m going to stop here,” I said, “See you whenever.”

Octave said goodbye and disappeared into the night.

Le Domaine was twenty minutes from Lavaurette and surrounded by untended land. I knew the dirt tracks like the back of my hand and even in my intoxicated state, I arrived at my destination mostly unscathed.

Mariette, my father’s housekeeper, had already retired for the night, but I was certain that Papa would be wide awake, reading or writing.

His bedroom was the largest among the many on the upper floor, with a high ceiling and floor-length widows; it was almost as spacious as my apartment at the village and he left it only when he had to, in order to eat or to use the bathroom; the latter was – for some mysterious reason - concealed behind a series of airless cupboards; I figured that if I slept in the room next to it and left the house quite early, he wouldn’t find out that I had been there.

Alas, luck wasn’t on my side, for when I reached the top of the staircase, I stumbled on a – thankfully empty – chamber pot and sent it tumbling down the stairs. I heard the creaking of rusty hinges and Papa’s critical gaze on me.

“Was it wine or brandy this time?” he enquired.

“Both,” I replied, scratching the back of my neck. “You still up?”

“As you can see,” he said, surveying me through his gold-rimmed glasses.

I didn’t wish to talk but when Papa went back inside leaving the door open for me, my feet followed him.

I looked around, briefly: the piano was still there. I gritted my teeth and clenched my fists, since another confrontation would have been fruitless or perhaps even counterproductive.  
Never one to let sleeping dogs lie, Professor Samuel Perlman - born of a Jewish American father and a French Catholic mother, agnostic, inquisitive and patronisingly wise – registered the tell-tale signs of my discomfort and picked at them like a magpie would a shiny object.

“I didn’t dispose of it,” he said, “I’ll keep it safe until you are ready to play it again.”

I sat on the armchair that Papa had destined for his guests – not that there were any – and let out a long sigh.

“I told you, I will never play again. I’m done with that and I’m never going to change my mind.”

“Just because Cortot collaborates with the Germans,” he started, but I didn’t let him finish. My mind had suddenly cleared from the fogs of inebriation and I felt cold and very angry. The memory of Olivier’s mocking blue eyes as he questioned my age made me even more furious.

“Just, you say, just?” I screamed, “Art is not more important than human lives, nothing is, no matter what your damn books tell you. Tomorrow I am going to visit two kids, one of them is only four, and I don’t know where their parents are. I can guess, but what good is it to them? Those people were no different from the gendarmes who took them and shoved them on a train to god knows where. And you want me to play the piano while the man who taught me is touring Germany, performing in front of the very people who are killing our brothers and sisters? Like hell I will!”

My eyes and cheeks were burning and wet.

“And you think hatred is a solution?”

I wiped my face on my jacket sleeve.

“There is no solution,” I said, quietly. “The bell can’t be unrung. You live in your own secluded world, but outside everything is going to hell. I do what I can with what I have.”

He came near me and touched the top of my head.

“I know and I am very proud of you,” he said. “I only wish that you wouldn’t give up on beauty and love. Nothing else matters in the end.”

“The fight matters,” I argued. “We had to leave Paris but I am not fleeing again.”

“There is no reason to,” he remarked.

I shook my head in disbelief.

“You think that it make any difference to them that you are not a practising Jew or that I was brought up as a Catholic?”

He turned his back to me and went to sit at his desk. I thought the conversation was over, but once again I was wrong.

“Who was it tonight, man or woman?”

I checked the impulse to clear my throat, a sign of nervousness he would immediately recognise.

“Two men,” I replied.

“It’s acceptable to have a personal life,” he commented, “You are allowed pleasures other than Bacchus.”

How did he know, I wondered, but didn’t feel strong enough to go down that path.

“I’m going to bed,” I announced. “You should do the same.”

“Soon,” he replied. “Will you stay for breakfast?”

“Probably not,” I said, and wished him good night.

The tiny room next to the bathroom had a comfortable bed and a smudged cheval mirror. For the first time in months, I contemplated my reflection: I was naked except for an old white cambric shirt, which I had left unbuttoned because of the heat.

I could see Olivier’s point: I was so skinny that I could count my ribs, and my face, despite the purple shadows beneath my eyes, was younger than my years.

I threw myself on the mattress and lay there, star-fished and despondent.

Why should I care about the opinion of that supercilious ass?

My nether regions provided the answer: the memory of those broad shoulders and thick thighs made my sex twitch. I brought my hand to it, not to indulge its whims, but to silence them: despite what Papa believed, it wasn’t safe to pursue the kind of relationship I craved; besides, it wasn’t the right time or the right person. And yet, his eyes had rested on mine for a beat too long; maybe I’d imagined it, but I had sensed a thrill of recognition, an appeal to something in me which was in him too.

“What stupid nonsense,” I chided myself and, squeezing the base of my stubborn erection, I turned to the side and forced myself to fall asleep.

***

Yves was snoring in the adjacent room; I could hear him through the open windows. I didn’t mind; I was relieved to be alive and excited that I was – at last – in the country where Peter had disappeared. I missed him with the soul-crushing despair of unfulfilled love; I craved his touch, but most of all I wanted to be allowed the chance to tell him what I felt for him. My anguish was compounded by the fact that I was starting to forget his face: not his features, which I could recall down to the last pore, but the unity, the character of it, had vanished. I heard his voice and his laughter, evoked the weight of his body on mine, and I felt lonely, closed-off, apart from the rest of humanity.

To distract myself from those gloomy reflections, I thought of the rude schoolboy who called himself Romain. I couldn’t believe he’d told me the truth: his name was an invention, and so must be his age and the profession he’d claimed to belong to.

I smiled as I remembered how he’d glared at me with those beautiful eyes and how the conversation had gone from bad to worse.

“You’ll sleep here,” he’d told us, while Octave and Auguste unloaded the crates and stored them in the cellar. “I heard that only one of you is staying.”

As agreed, Yves had remained silent and had let me provide the answers.

“I was told you’d find me work on a farm.”

Romain’s jaw had tightened.

“Very well,” he said, after a brief, eloquent pause. “I’ll see what I can do.”

He had shown us to our bedrooms and had been on his way back downstairs when I’d stopped him.

“We are on the same side,” I’d said, in way of apology.

He’d chewed the inside of his cheek and I’d felt that he’d been suppressing some powerful emotion.

“Hardly,” he’d spat out. “You look like them.”

“And you are drunk,” I’d bitten back. “And that makes you careless.”

He’d scowled, but Octave had called him from downstairs.

“Keep your mouth shut,” he’d said before going. “And we’ll get along just fine.”

Somehow, I knew that we would fight again and that he would be angry and shout at me.

As I reflected on this before going to sleep, I realised that my anguish had diminished and so had the ache in my chest.

The journey to Agen was our return to normality. I had been terrified at first, but after having purchased the tickets and two cafes crème at the station, I’d started to feel more confident. I had opted for a slightly Teutonic inflection, in order to instil the conviction that I came from Alsace and was therefore quasi-German.

Yves had wrapped a scarf around his neck and was sucking on cough-drops, pretending to suffer from throat-ache.

On the train, I read a local newspaper and was profoundly shocked by what I was confronted with: article after article about patriotism, the fatherland, the perils of Communism and the evils of intellectualism; there were numerous photos of Pétain and of blond children in uniform. I folded the paper and looked outside the window, yawning to mask my disgust.

The woman sitting opposite me asked me if she could have the paper and I handed it to her, wishing I’d never set eyes on it.

It had shaken me more than the bombs had done in London: there had been fear then, and a determination to get on with life. But this fake cheerfulness, this pretence that the nation was not under occupation but free to pursue a rural dream that belonged to the distant past, this was the stuff nightmares were made of.

Romain had been right: we weren’t on the same side. He was fighting against his own people, going against the current and seeing his childhood friends turn to enemies, while I had been spared that. His schoolboy’s frailty was an insufficient bulwark against the brutality of his opponents. I wished I could help him but doubted that he would have allowed me, had I proposed a course of action.

Maybe once I’d found Peter, he would know what to do. Now that I was in France, I was certain that he was still alive and that I would be with him again.

After an hour, the door opened and a gendarme asked to see our documents. The French people in our carriage seemed resigned and indifferent and I noticed that Yves had copied their reaction to the letter. He had plenty of sang-froid to counteract his lack of language skills and had the ability to blend in whatever crowd. I, who could seldom do that, smiled as haughtily as I could and thanked them when they returned my identity card after having glanced at it.

We had passed the first test with flying colours.


	5. Mirabel

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Oliver is on a mission.... no, really.
> 
> This is a plotty chapter to get rid of Oliver's pretext for being in France. From now on, he will be in the same place as Elio.
> 
> Oliver's POV

The station tannoy announced that we’d arrived in Agen: it was six-thirty in the evening.

We walked along the platform and out into the main building. Yves was carrying a small suitcase but I left mine – heftier, more cumbersome – at the left-luggage office. Across the street was a square building painted yellow, the Café de la Gare.

“We’ll meet here later, after you’ve taken me to my contact,” Yves said.

Agen had the colours and atmosphere of the south: dark-skinned people, roof tiles and wrought-iron balconies. There were few cars on the streets, and those we crossed were powered by charcoal-gas engines.

Instead of taxis, there were horse-drawn carts, like the one used by Romain and his friends.

Yves had memorised the route so I followed him, walking swiftly in order to avoid the curiosity of the locals. It was a superfluous precaution since the streets were half deserted. I was scared all the same; maybe even more than I’d have been at the sight of German uniforms. It was as though a deadly virus had spread through this pathetic little town and had decimated hope, substituting it with inertia.

We rang the bell on a door next to a bakery and heard footsteps approach. A woman with black, suspicious eyes opened the door; she stared at me and shook her head. Yves gave her his code but she wasn’t satisfied and asked more questions until she relented and let him in.

“Two hours,” he said, and the woman shut the door in my face.

The evening was warm and humid, so I sat outside and ordered a beer.

I lit a cigarette and, as I thought of Peter, scratched at the bristly skin above my upper lip: he’d hated facial hair, so I’d always shaved, while now I was in the process of growing a moustache. I smiled, imagining his moue of distaste if he’d seen me now. Jackson had suggested it might be a good idea: it would make me look even more Teutonic, he’d said, which in turn would lessen the suspicion that I might be an Englishman.

A woman wouldn’t have a problem with it, I told myself, but another man would think twice about kissing me, afraid that the traces of his ‘depravity’ would be stamped all over his skin; especially if that skin were delicate and pale; it wasn’t the case for the inhabitants of Agen or Lavaurette, who tended to be olive-skinned. All but Romain, was the unhelpful objection supplied by my subconscious; he had the complexion of a cloistered nun but he was as spiky as a feral cat. I would have to deal with him again, once I returned from my mission in Clermont, and I wasn’t looking forward to it. And yet, at the same time, I couldn’t deny that I wanted to know about him; no, it was more than that: I wished to have a long conversation with him and, for no reason at all, I had an inkling that he would understand, that I wouldn’t have to lie. For weeks, I had been talking silently to Peter, but I was tired and craved a real audience, someone who would listen and not judge. But why him, I couldn’t say.

I ground the butt of my cigarette into the ashtray and muttered under my breath.

“All right?” asked Yves.

I hadn’t realised two hours had already passed and winced.

“Sure,” I replied, leaving a few coins on the table. “Shall we get the train?”

“Better if we sleep here,” he said, “There’s a cheap hotel over there,” he indicated a white three-storey building.

The dinner that night was a very unseasonable casserole with lentils and sausages, I was starving and so was Yves, and considering the food shortages, we were not about to complain. We asked for a double room, but they only had singles: luckily I had been given a large quantity of francs.

By sheer misfortune, the walls were thin and the couple next door were making love with violent abandon: I could hear her whimpers and his grunts, her moans and his floor-rattling shoves. I didn’t have anything to drink and no sleeping pills, so I just lay there waiting for them to finish, remembering my nights with Peter, desperate to recapture the memory of his breath on my skin, inside my mouth.

He was alive, he must be alive, I kept repeating.

The next day, I accompanied Yves to his last destination, an even more dismal place called Uzerche. This time his contact, a man who went by the name of Gaston, was waiting for us and even offered us tea and biscuits. We chatted about dogs and of the Lake District, and I left with the sense that the war had barely made a scratch on the surface of his carapace, the screen that he’d erected between himself and the barbaric necessities of the conflict.

My mission was in Ussel, a place near the mountains.

I couldn’t wait to deliver the wireless crystals which I’d hidden among my underwear; or should I say Olivier’s, since section G had provided me with a brand new wardrobe, all made in France, with the appropriate labels.

I was to go to a barber shop and ask for Antoine. The man was at least ten years older than me and was clearly glad to see me.

“Welcome,” he said, after he’d ascertained my identity. “Sit down, you look tired.”

I let go of the breath I’d been holding ever since I’d knocked at his door.

There was a bottle of wine on the table and he poured me a glass.

“I was about to have dinner,” he said, “There’s enough for two.”

I was going to protest, but the train journey had been long and uncomfortable, and the day stifling hot.

“I don’t want to get you into trouble,” I said.

He shook his head and smiled.

“Here in Ussel we mind our own business,” he replied. “I know of some places rife with collaborators, but that’s not the case here.”

“What about Clermont?” I enquired.

“Is that where you are going next?”

I nodded and pondered whether I could tell him more.

“You should be alright,” he said, “As long as you don’t stay long, that is. They will notice a new face, especially one as singular as yours. Even if your French is almost perfect.”

“Almost?” I repeated, “I’m supposed to come from Alsace.”

“Yes, I could believe that,” he said. “But you may be taken for a German spy too, and that would be bad, yes?”

I agreed that it would be a disaster.

“But if you only go to visit a garage, ask a question then leave: well, I don’t see how it could be a problem.”

I hesitated but the alcohol, the tiredness and the adrenaline won over my reticence: I didn’t tell the truth, but I managed to unburden myself a little.

“My brother crashed his plane around here,” I said. “I want to find out whether he’s alive.”

“Does he speak French as well as you?”

I laughed. “No, he’s terrible at languages.”

He patted me on the back. “Don’t worry, my friend, I’m sure he found himself a nice French woman who’s taking care of him. Happens often enough with pilots, or so I hear.”

“Possibly,” I replied, and it was with a internal jolt that I considered the eventuality of Peter being interested in the gentler sex. I didn’t know, I’d never asked; there simply had been no time to probe him on that subject. He loved dancing with girls, but since he couldn’t possibly do it with men, not in public at least, that was hardly proof of anything.

Antoine mistook my silence for exhaustion.

“I’ll change the sheets in the spare room,” he said.

Before I could protest, he showed me where the bathroom was.

“No hot water, I am afraid,” he informed me.

I washed as quickly as I could and found him in a small room with bars on the window.

“Better safe than sorry,” he chuckled.

“I think I should give you the package now,” I said, as I placed the suitcase on the bed. He took the small bundle and tore it open: he handled the tiny crystals with extreme care, his stubby fingers as delicate as those of a watch-maker.

“You did well, my friend,” he murmured. “You did very well.”

I fell asleep the instant my head hit the pillow, but I woke up when it was still dark: I was drenched in sweat and my heart was pumping in my ears, but most troublesome of all, the front of my underpants was sopping wet.

“Fuck,” I swore under my breath. I hadn’t had a wet dream in years; it was laughable to have one in these circumstances, under a stranger’s roof.

I stood at the open window and breathed slowly, trying to clear my head.

It had started with Peter and me, in my bed, in London: we’d been kissing and then I had tried to take him but he had fought back. I had pinned his arms to the mattress and he’d kicked and screamed; when I’d finally succeeded in pushing inside him, the eyes that had glared back at me had not been grey but green.

In the lavatory of the train to Clermont, someone had painted a yellow Star of David and written ‘the beast’ under it.

Suddenly, I felt more alone and vulnerable than I had since my arrival in France.

The weather was turning chilly and the hot sun of Lavaurette was a distant memory. I was on my own, straying from the path I’d been assigned. Two gendarmes entered my carriage and asked for my papers, which were examined with the usual swift indifference. The other people in my compartment were as bored and uncaring; the smell coming from their bags and suitcases suggested that they contained food, which probably had been obtained by less than legal means. The guards turned a blind eye: live and let live, that seemed to be their motto.

The Michelin Guide had shown me the location of the garage I wanted. It was in Rue Blatin, next to a branch of the Crédit Lyonnais. The telephone directory confirmed that the owner was a ‘F. Chollet’.

I jumped on the tram and grasped at a hanging strap just in time as the vehicle jolted off towards the middle of town.

The garage itself was at the run-down end of the road. In the distance, the bulk of the Massif Central was a strangely menacing presence.

I went through the wooden doors into a gloomy office, where a woman dressed in black sat at a desk cluttered with papers.

“Monsieur?” she asked, without blinking.

“I was looking for Monsieur Chollet.”

“He’s working on a car, over there,” she replied, gesturing with a plump, freckled hand.

“I won’t keep him long,” I said, but she had already lost interest.

Chollet was a short, lean man with a shock of white hair. His face, when he looked at me, was younger than I expected, and unlined.

“Are you Chollet?” I asked, and he nodded.

I was shaking a little, and I would have liked to smoke but for obvious reasons it wasn’t allowed.

“A friend of mine asked me to get in touch with you if I should need news. He said you’d answer to the name of Valois.”

His expression hardened. “I don’t know what you are talking about.”

“Look, it’s very important. I wouldn’t risk my safety and yours by coming here otherwise.”

He said nothing and after a while he bent over the engine and resumed his work.

I waited, not knowing what to do or say. I couldn’t tell him who I was or mention Peter, and I had no other proof of my honest intentions.

After a long while, he straightened up again and wiped his hands on a dirty cloth.

“I can’t help you,” he said, “But Mirabel can, that’s all I can say. Good day to you, Monsieur.”


	6. Trust

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Elio and Oliver meet again.
> 
> First Elio's POV then Oliver's

“They are asking about their maman all the time,” Madame Darel said, “But they no longer cry themselves to sleep.”

Her housekeeper, a buxom girl named Solange, had brought us coffee and a plate of petit fours. She simpered at me and I smiled back, just enough to stay in her good books.

“What about school?” I enquired.

The summer was about to end and a decision had to be made with regards to Julien’s education.

Madame Darel waited for Solange to leave the room before replying.

“I’ve heard things,” she said, lowering her voice. “Solange tells me what they say in town. The direction the war is taking, even here in the Free Zone,” she grimaced. “I wouldn’t trust the teachers, especially not that Benech.”

“He’s a fool but surely he’s harmless.”

She stared at me with her large brown eyes. She was about the age my mother would have been had she survived the bout of pneumonia which had taken her from us when I was eleven.

“Dear Elio,” she replied. “Given the right incentive, men like Benech can become very dangerous indeed. He’s not clever and can thus be manipulated with ease.”

I’d known Benech for a while and he'd always struck me as a boisterous buffoon, but she was older and wiser, so I didn’t argue. Besides, the boys had been listed as missing, so it wouldn’t do for them to suddenly reappear as if nothing had happened.

“I can teach them for the moment being,” she went on. “I have been idle for too long and I feel that I haven’t been doing enough for my country.”

“It’s a strange situation. We are at war but in bed with the enemy.”

Her face became sombre.

“My poor Henri,” she said, speaking of her late husband. “In a way, I am glad he’s not here to see what his country has become.”

Monsieur Darel had fought at Verdun and had been a fervent patriot.

“His best friend was Jewish,” she continued, “And died at the Somme, giving his life for the same man who’s now enacting German laws.”

Our conversation was interrupted by a loud noise and by the laughter of children.

“I hope they haven’t broken anything,” I said, but she shrugged as if to imply that it didn’t matter.

We found the boys at the bottom of the staircase: Jacob was crouched inside an open suitcase and his older brother was trying to get him out of it.

“What is going on?” I asked, suppressing a smile.

Julien ran up to me and hugged my waist.

“Tobogganing,” he said, his voice muffled by the fabric of my shirt. “It’s my turn.”

I looked at Madame Darel and she nodded her head.

“It’s an old valise,” she said, “But let’s ask Solange to remove the vases from the side table.”

Julien turned towards her. “We’ll never go so far,” he exclaimed.

“Yes, yes, I want to fly,” his brother protested, “You promised.”

“He’s such a baby,” Julien said, rolling his eyes. It was clear that he was pleased about his new role of authority, now that there were no adult men in the house.

“Have you been good?” I asked him.

He tilted his head to the side. “I’m not sure,” he said. “Maman would not approve of tobogganing inside the house.”

At that, Jacob gave a shrill laugh.

“She would be very proud of you,” Madame Darel intervened. She was kneeling next to Jacob and tousling his fine hair. “Now, if you go back to your room, I’ll ask Solange to bring you some malted milk.”

“And the biscuits?” asked Julien who’d all but forgotten about me as soon as food had been mentioned.

“Yes, but only if you wash your hands first,” she replied.

Julien took his brother by the hand and pulled him up the stairs.

Madame Darel asked me to put the suitcase inside her late husband’s studio.

At the far side of the room was a grand piano, which appeared to have been recently used.

“I’m giving them lessons,” she said. “Julien loves it. I was wondering,” she hesitated, sensing my hostility, “Would you have any sheet music to lend me?”

“I must have,” I replied, “At the farm, somewhere.”

She didn’t insist and I chose that moment to take my leave, promising to let her know as soon as I had news about the Duguays.

I had trouble understanding what was happening. I had inklings, of course, but some details puzzled me. There had been a great displacement of refugees and internment camps had been built throughout the Free Zone. Yet there seemed to be no arrivals from Eastern Europe, but only departures.

When I had started collaborating with the Resistance, I had been impulsive, passionate about fighting injustice. I had gone to a Communist meeting in Limoges and hadn't been too keen on their designs for the future of Europe. It had been only when Mirabel had approached me that I’d agreed to join. His objectives were simple: blow up as many trains as possible and set up networks that would later help kick out the invader: that was enough of a political statement, I’d thought.

The disappearance of the Duguays had changed everything.

I could never forget the look in Bernard’s eyes when he’d explained how he’d only done his duty in taking two innocent people away from their kids. The gendarme’s defensiveness, his expression of blameless guilt spoke of something as dangerous as evil: that inertia that allows evil to flourish.

I knew that if I wanted to get information, I had to conceal my anger and my contempt. Octave had been right: I’d better cut down on my drinking else I revealed more than I intended to.

The following morning, I made a few phone calls from my office. One of my contacts in Limoges explained that there had been a major operation at the _Vélodrome d'Hiver_ in Paris, in which children has also been rounded-up in preparation for being sent away. 

“What should I tell the children?” I asked him.

“Lie to them,” he replied, “Their parents will never return, of that I am sure.”

I was sketching a design for the converted monastery when the phone rang.

Juliette’s voice had an inquisitive edge. “A certain Armand,” she said, “Asking for Romain.”

That was the last thing I needed, but I couldn’t refuse to help him.

“Put him through,” I replied, with a sigh.

I barely remembered having given him my phone number and here he was, calling me at work.

“Romain speaking,” I said, coldly. “What is it?”

There was a pause and when he spoke, his voice sounded rough.

“Would it be possible to meet?”

I looked at my watch: it was nearly lunchtime.

“Do you know where the church is?” I asked, and when he replied in the affirmative, I told him to meet me there in fifteen minutes.

I found him sitting in the back pew. When I touched him on the shoulder, he flinched.

“I didn’t mean to startle you,” I said.

He looked at me and I was surprised by his pallor and the tension in his features.

“Don’t worry,” he said, “I have a terrible headache and I feel a bit dizzy.”

As though to prove that, he stood up and swayed, like a boat about to capsize.

“Have you had anything to eat?”

“Not yet but that’s not the problem.”

He was sad; his blue eyes were without shine.

“I have a couple of things to finish at the office,” I said, “You’re welcome to rest in my apartment. Don’t worry about the concierge: I chose that building because it was without one. There’s some left-over stew in the kitchen and a bottle of aspirin in the bathroom.”

I handed him my keys and gave him directions to my place.

He would have objected had he been his usual self: I could tell by the frown that wrinkled his forehead.

“Are you sure you won’t faint along the way,” I enquired. “It would attract attention and I’d prefer to avoid that.”

“I won’t,” he replied, clenching his jaw. “I only need to take care of this stupid pain.”

His hands balled into fists and for a brief instant, I feared that he was going to hit me. The rolled-up sleeves of his shirt revealed two hairy muscled forearms. When he flexed his long, elegant fingers, I realised I’d been staring.

“I’ll see you soon,” I said, and strode away without waiting for his reply.

***

Exhaustion had hit me like a freight train as soon as I’d been on the train that took me away from Clermont Ferrand.

I’d hoped against my better judgment that Chollet would tell me that Peter was alive, that he was safe and waiting for someone to come and rescue him.

How disgustingly romantic, I thought.

With tiredness came misery and after them, a tightness in my chest which was always accompanied by a corresponding pain in my temples and behind my eyes.

I could have rented a hotel room, but I needed to talk as much as I needed to eat and rest.

Romain was the only person I knew in Lavaurette and the one who could find me an accommodation if I decided to stay.

In his office attire he looked older and less approachable, but he’d been kind enough not to turn me away.

His place was not unlike mine in London, except that is wasn’t cold and humid.

I went straight to the bathroom and found the bottle of aspirin: I took two, and swallowed them down with tap water.

I had no appetite, so I decided to wait for Romain in the living room. A glass-fronted bookcase attracted my attention: the diverse selection included Palladio, Guimard, Bergson, Keats, Henry James and Plato. When I pulled out a translation of Ibsen plays, I saw that behind it was Bach’s Matthaus-Passion.

I wondered why he’d tucked it away like that and whether he maybe used it to hide secret information received from his comrades of the Resistance. The idea was too fanciful, I concluded: there must surely be a more plausible reason.

While I debated what this reason might be, I heard a discreet knock at the door and Romain’s voice calling my name.

I let him in and after he closed the door, he looked at me and nodded.

“You look better,” he said. “Was the food alright?”

“I waited for you.”

He went to the bathroom to wash his hands and replied from there.

“You shouldn’t have.”

He re-heated the stew and served it with a slice of buttered bread. I was suddenly famished so we ate in silence; his eyes skimmed my face several times, but he didn’t speak until I was done with my food.

“Will you go back to England next week?” he asked, as he poured me a glass of red wine.

I swiped a thumb across my upper lip.

“I’m not sure,” I murmured.

He muttered something unintelligible.

“I have to go back to work,” he said, “But you are free to stay here and rest. You will be quite safe and you can sleep in my bed if you like.”

I was too stunned to reply, so he went on. “I’ll lock the door so no one can come in. If anyone knocks, don’t answer. I’ll be back at seven.”

He was gone and I hadn’t even thanked him.

His bedroom was bare with a large, comfortable bed. A pair of navy blue trousers had been thrown over a chair and on the night-stand was a pack of Gitanes, an ashtray and a box of matches.

I took off my shoes and socks, and slid underneath the eiderdown.

I woke up at five, convinced that I was still in Agen. After a moment of panic, I remembered Romain and his green eyes, his curly hair and his direct, almost offensive manner. I recalled our conversation at lunch, his disappointment when I’d refused to confirm that I’d return to England. Inside of me, something had rebelled at the idea. I couldn’t leave without knowing whether Peter was alive or dead.

Barefoot, I went to kitchen. I longed for a cup of tea, but I doubted I would find any. The closest thing I could find to tea was a jar with dried leaves of camomile.

I boiled the water, poured it over the herbs and took the cup to the sitting room, waiting for the tisane to infuse.

I was drinking the last of it and reading Ibsen, when I heard Romain’s noisy footsteps on the staircase: it was only six o’clock.

“Did you sleep?” he asked, as he kicked off his shoes. He had long slender feet, pale as his face.

“Yes, thank you. My headache’s gone too.”

“You won’t be fainting then.”

“Not if I can help it.”

“What should we do for dinner? I have used all my coupons.”

“I have money,” I said.

He smiled and I was pleased to remark that it reached his eyes.

“Are you suggesting the black market?”

“Maybe the grey one,” I replied, just to watch him grin again.

He took me to the Café du Centre, where we had mutton chops and a potato salad.

I kept silent all through the meal, while Romain chatted to the owner, Monsieur Gayral, and his wife, asking them about their son and about other people I obviously didn’t know. He’d introduced me as a distant relative and that appeared to have sated their curiosity.

Back in his apartment, Romain made up the bed with clean sheets and put a carafe of water and a glass on the bedside table.

He grabbed the spare pillow and a blanket and informed me that he would sleep on the couch.

“Wait,” I said, “Listen, if I were to stay here, could I be of any use to you?”

Romain shut his eyes and flared his nostrils.

“We need all the help we can get, but look at you: you are built like a piece of art nouveau furniture in a world of basic proportions.”

“Is that the architect speaking?”

He slumped down on the sofa and I joined him.

“Don’t you want to go back to your country?” he asked.

I stared at him, at his angular face and his slender white throat. Could I trust him, I wondered, a bit wildly, as my heart hammered against my ribcage.

“My work here is not done,” I replied.

“I assumed you’d completed your mission.”

“I have, in a way.”

“I don’t understand.”

I took a deep breath, like a diver before taking the plunge.

“There was another reason,” I murmured. “A person I came here to find, a friend of mine.”

His eyes shone like gems.

“A man?” he asked, softly.

A silence like treacle or quicksand spread between his question and my answer.

“Yes,” I whispered.


	7. Call Me By My Name

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Elio and Oliver talk. A decision is made.
> 
> Oliver's POV - Elio's POV

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> A brief note which is not related to this chapter: during my research I came across the fact that Le-Chambon-sur-Lignon (where Timmy's French side of the family comes from) is famous for having saved dozens of Jewish people during the war. Camus wrote The Plague there, around the time when this story is set, August 1942.

The relief engendered by my confession turned to horror: I had admitted to committing a crime, one that for some was worse than murder.

“A good friend, that’s all he is,” I hastened to add.

Romain held my gaze and I couldn’t look away.

Seconds elapsed during which I felt scrutinised and torn apart by his piercing stare.

I needed a smoke and a stiff drink, but I couldn’t get the words out.

When he was done examining me, his face was inscrutable.

“You don’t have to lie to me,” he said, “I won’t betray your trust. But if you want my opinion, I don’t think it was a good idea for your superiors to pack you off to France without proper training.”

“There wasn’t any time,” I objected, but he cut me off.

“What do you know about the Maquis?” he asked, in a cutting tone.

“It’s the name of the Resistance,” I replied, “De Gaulle is partly behind it, aided by the Allied Forces.”

“Yes and what we do is bloody risky. You say the wrong thing to the wrong person and,” he made the cut-throat gesture with his thumb.

Cold sweat trickled down my back.

“I only wanted to find out whether he was still alive, that’s all,” I murmured.

“What did you do?” he enquired.

I told him about Clermont, the garage and the name Mirabel. At that, his eyes flickered with interest.

“You know him?” I asked.

“He’s the one who recruited me. I haven’t seen him in months; he might be dead or moved to another branch of the Maquis.”

“Was he French?”

Romain shook his head. “I don’t think so. His accent was perfect, but there was a certain something in his manner which indicated that he was one of yours.”

“I need to find him,” I said. “Will you help me?”

“You better tell me why I should and make it convincing,” he replied. “I won’t trouble my contacts without a good reason.”

“Do you mind if I pinch one of your cigarettes?”

He grinned. “I want one too,” he replied. “And some brandy. I should cut down, but I guess I’ll sleep it off.” He fetched the drinks and the Gitanes and deposited them on the table by the sofa.

After the first drag, a sudden calm spread through my jangled nerves. I hadn’t been this relaxed in weeks.

“His name is Peter,” I started, and went on telling him about my brief relationship and Peter’s eventual disappearance. Romain’s face was a blank, but his eyes told a different story. I perceived several emotions and none of them was disgust or contempt. His jaw was tightly clenched but the fingers holding the cigarette did not tremble.

“He sounds like a remarkable person,” he remarked, when I was done. “A bit foolhardy and overconfident, perhaps.”

“Why do you say that?”

“Well, his certainty that he was indestructible and couldn’t crash was obviously misplaced.”

I flushed with anger. “What would you have had him say, that he feared he’d be shot down by the Boche?”

He scowled. “His words are irrelevant, but I question the attitude behind them.”

I scoffed. “You were drunk when I met you.”

“Inebriated not drunk,” he bit back. “You’d drink too if you were risking your life every other day.”

“Well, Peter did that while sober.”

He opened his mouth that shut it and looked away. He was breathing fast and biting his lips.

“I’m tired,” he whispered. “I’ve had a long day. Let’s go to sleep and talk again tomorrow.”

“Yes, of course,” I replied, feeling a pang of guilt at the weariness etched over his features. “I shouldn’t have offended you. You have been more than kind.”

I had said the wrong thing again; his eyes narrowed and his nose curled in distaste.

“Kind,” he spat out. “That’s not why I,” he halted, raked a hand through his curls, “Never mind, it’ll keep until tomorrow.”

“I can take the couch,” I said, “Sleep in your own bed, it’s only fair.”

He rolled his eyes.

“Like I mentioned before, you are not made for this ordinary world,” he replied, with a hint of a smile. “You’re too tall for my sofa.”

“I can manage,” I insisted. “I’m used to making do.”

“You don’t need to. Go rest your weary limbs.”

I sensed that it would be pointless to argue, so I headed to the bathroom to prepare for the night. I was brushing my teeth when he barged in and strode to the toilet.

“You don’t mind, do you?” he asked, as he undid his pants. “I really need to go.”

I made a noise of assent and continued my ablutions, doing my utmost to ignore what he was doing. At school I’d been used to the invasion of my privacy, but after that I’d been more guarded, even with my lovers.

Romain pulled the cord of the flush and came up to the sink to wash his hands. Our eyes met in the mirror.

“All yours,” I said, wiping my mouth with a towel. He blinked, said nothing. I wished him good night and left.

That night I slept like a baby.

Romain’s presence, coupled with the certainty that he was going to help me, eased the tightness in my chest. It was a dreamless slumber and when I woke up, just after dawn, I felt refreshed and ready to take on any challenge.

I waited a little while, but since I couldn’t hear footsteps, I judged that either Romain had left or that he was still asleep.

On tiptoes, I made my way to the bathroom. The apartment was in semi darkness but I succeeded in not stumbling over random bits of furniture.

I did what I had to do and then decided that I’d prepare some coffee. Still half asleep, I mistakenly went into the sitting room. I was about to get out again, when my attention was captured by the figure spread out on the sofa. Romain had kicked the blankets to the floor and was lying on his back, one slender arm flung across his face. He was naked aside from his underpants: his chest was pale and hairless, slim and narrow but not undernourished. He reminded me of a Renaissance _Pietà_: a Christ-like mixture of vulnerability and untold power. Unbidden, came the impulse of covering him up, of shielding him from prying gazes, including mine; instead, I turned around and left.

***

I awoke to the fragrance of freshly brewed coffee.

For a moment, I wondered where I was, convinced I’d somehow sneaked back to Le Domaine and that Mariette would soon bring me my breakfast.

The ache in my back put paid to that fantasy: I was on my sofa and Olivier Armand, or whatever his name was, had slept in my bed. Just the thought of a man lying between my sheets made me reach for my crotch. I groped my morning erection and gave it a couple of tugs. That was too risky so I adjourned matters to the bathroom, where I got myself off on the bidet, my forehead pressed to the cool, slippery tiles.

“Peter,” I thought, with a stab of anger that came out of nowhere. I had no reason to feel that way, since I barely knew Olivier. I rationalised my feelings while I washed my face. The love he had described was an unknown entity to me. Passion and lust, yes; fondness and affection, that too; but I’d never been so deeply involved as to risk my life for the sake of a lover. I understood justice and self-preservation, admired courage and rebellion, but had never experienced the sort of devotion Olivier felt for his partner. I wondered if I’d ever aroused such feelings in another person but I doubted it.

I inspected my face in the mirror and grimaced: not much to admire, just a collection of bones and freckles. Still, many had found it attractive enough to get into bed with me and remain there for more than one night. I stuck my tongue out and concluded that I was being childish: we were at war and nothing else mattered; not even the startling god-like looks of a makeshift British spy.

I found him in the kitchen, in the process of cooking scrambled eggs.

“I have made up my mind,” I said.

He turned his head and smiled at me.

“Good morning to you too,” he replied.

“Yes, alright, but don’t you want to know what my decision is?”

“I’m dying of curiosity,” he quipped.

I glared at him but it only made him laugh.

“Sit down,” he said, “The coffee is still warm but I could---”

“No, it’s fine,” I replied.

He poured me a cup and plated the eggs.

“I never eat in the morning,” I said, and immediately regretted it. The smile vanished from his eyes and lips. “But maybe I should,” I added. “I’m always told that I should put on some weight.”

“Told by whom?” he said, and then, “Sorry, it’s none of my business.”

“Friends, mostly, and Mlle Bobotte, the lady who operates the switchboard at my office,” I replied, as I sipped my coffee.

“She cares about your health.”

“Juliette likes her men on the robust side,” I said. “You’d be his type, if you were, you know--- available.”

He blushed scarlet so I took pity on him.

“My idea is that you should go and stay with my father at the farm. The house is in disrepair and the land desperately needs tending to.”

“I know very little about farming, but I’ll be happy to help,” he replied.

“What were you doing in your previous life?”

He cleared his throat.

“I was going to be a teacher,” he said, hesitantly. “Philosophy.”

I groaned and he looked up at me. I noticed the thick fringe of his eyelashes, in stark contrast to the pure blue of his eyes.

“My father is—was a Professor of philosophy. Don’t mention Epictetus or you’ll never hear the end of it.”

His smile was bright and almost childlike. “I’m more of a Heraclitus man myself, but I’m willing to compromise.”

“I can already tell that he’s going to like you.”

Before he asked, I informed him about Mariette; I didn’t tell him about my mother, since it was up to Papa to speak of her. But there was another thing that I wanted to tell Olivier, and that was up to me and to me only.

“You should know my real name,” I said. “After all, you’ll be staying in my house and with my family.” I held out my hand and said. “Hi, my name is Elio Perlman.”

He grasped it firmly and was about to reply, but I stopped him.

“Don’t tell me,” I urged. “You have told me so much about you and I’ve only told you my name.”

He nodded his head. “Elio,” he said. “It suits you. Why an Italian name, if I may ask?”

“Papa will tell you, I’m sure,” I looked at the clock and calculated that I’d just enough time to take Olivier to Le Domaine if I wanted to be at the office before my client arrived.

“We have to go,” I told him. “I have a question: can you ride a bicycle?”

“Yes, and a horse too, if necessary,” he replied.

The image of Olivier on a horse was one to save for a more convenient moment.

“We have no other means of transport here, so cycling is the quickest way of getting from the farm to Lavaurette.”

“Understood,” he said, and as he started tidying up, he turned and glanced at me, with the obvious intention of asking me a question of his own.

“What is it?”

“Why did you hide that Bach score?” he said, lowering his gaze. “I didn’t mean to pry but I was looking for something to read and---”

For some reason, I couldn’t lie to him.

“I didn’t want to look at it,” I replied. “And I hadn’t the heart to do anything else with it. I used to play the piano, before the war.”

He stared at my hands.

“You don’t seem injured.”

“It’s nothing to do with my ability to play.”

“I see,” he murmured, and nodded to himself. “Yes, I see.”

And absurd as it was, I did believe that he really understood.


	8. Master and Servant

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Oliver meets Samuel Perlman.  
Elio risks a heart attack.
> 
> Oliver's POV/Elio's POV

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> The peach trees are in the original novel and they are the reason why I ultimately decided to write this AU. Random bloody luck of the universe lols

My first glimpse of The Domaine was through the boughs of peach trees: a lopsided front door, terracotta-coloured shutters, a tower with a weathervane; it was like a blueprint of peaceful rural France, an eternal symbol that not even war could shatter.

“You see what I meant,” Elio said, indicating the tall grass that flanked the path we were treading on. “The bicycles and the garden utensils are in the shed over there.” The ramshackle building in question was in dire need of a coat of paint.

“We have a chicken coop too,” he went on, “Mariette takes care of them. We used to have cows, but they were too much trouble for her and we couldn’t find any suitable help.”

“I hope your father won’t mind my presence,” I said, noticing Elio’s frown.

“He’ll be glad to have a philosopher to talk to,” he replied, “He doesn’t get much joy from me on that front.”

“I find it difficult too,” I conceded, “Detachment is a luxury I can no longer afford.”

Elio laughed. “Now you are sounding like me.”

I smiled at him and he held my gaze for a moment before looking away. He had trick trick of seeming both young and older within the space of a breath; the variation depending on the look in his eyes or the tension in his jaw, and myriad factors I could not yet compute.

Once inside the house, he yelled “Papa,” and a few moments later a figure appeared on the half-landing, where the stairs turned: it was a man of fifty or so, well-built and grey-haired, wearing suit trousers and a white shirt without collar; he was immaculate without being severe; his gold-rimmed glasses added to his air of distinction but the smile that lit up his features was genuine and almost childlike.

“I didn’t expect you so early,” he said.

“I’m bringing you a guest,” replied Elio. “Come meet your new lodger.”

Thus I was introduced to Samuel Perlman and when he shook my hand, his grip was warm and dry. “Please call me Samuel,” he said.

After that, Elio excused himself and hurried back to Lavaurette.

Samuel eyed me with keen curiosity.

“I think we’ll go into the drawing room,” he announced.

He led the way down the left-hand passage from the hall, past two or three doors into a large, lofty room that ran the depth of the house. The windows overlooked the untended garden and the light poured in, illuminating the 19th century furniture with its faded upholstery. Above the marble mantelpiece was a mirror in a gilded frame with fussy scrolls in need of a good polish.

“Please do sit down,” he said, and I chose the sofa while he sat on the armchair opposite it.

In the brief silence which followed, I feared the clarity of his gaze.

“You must wish to know who I am and what I am doing here,” I said, wondering what parts of the story I could reveal and what I should keep to myself. I needn’t have worried.

“You are Elio’s friend and that’s all I am interested in,” he replied. “In time, we’ll learn more about each other and you may be more inclined to trust me than you are now.”

“I wouldn’t say that we are friends, but I hope that we are heading in that direction.”

He smiled. “You and I both,” he said. “What do you propose of doing here at Le Domaine?”

“I could start by cutting the grass and uprooting all those weeds,” I replied.

Samuel’s eyes opened wide, until he realised that I was being serious.

“It is entirely up to you and Elio,” he said, “I wouldn’t mind having you as a guest.”

“I prefer to keep occupied.”

“Instead of thinking, you mean.”

His gaze was gentle, understanding. I nodded my head.

“I have heard that our government is sending people to work in Germany in exchange for our prisoners,” he said, in a recitative tone of voice.

“It’s worse than that,” I argued. “The Germans only want trained men, so Laval has promised to send eight men, four of them trained, in exchange for one prisoner. He’s a fool.”

His bemused expression prompted my next comment. “You don’t follow politics do you?”

Samuel shook his head, slowly.

“There are things which are within our power, and there are things which are beyond our power,” he quoted.

“The Enchiridion,” I said, watching as his face was transformed by a beaming smile.

“Elio brought me a philosopher,” he exclaimed. “That boy of mine is a real wonder.”

The praise wasn’t directed at me, but it made me happy all the same; why it would be the case, I chose not to question.

“He doesn’t appear to be interested in the subject,” I said.

He grinned. “Elio despises fatalism in any shape or form. He won’t accept that there are evils one has to submit to and not fight, death being one of them.”

I thought of Peter and my refusal to believe that he might be gone forever.

“I’m not sure I disagree with him.”

He winked at me. “He has that effect on people, so you better be on your guard.”

We chatted for a little while longer and soon it was as if I’d known him for ages and not only a handful of minutes.

“I’ll show you to your room,” he said, when we were done talking. “There are two you can choose from.”

We climbed the stairs up to the tower. The first bedroom had a low ceiling beneath the eaves, a big 1800’s boat-bed with a grey silk cover, and a Watteau reproduction in a heavy brass frame.

“May I have this one?” I asked.

He chuckled, “I knew that you would choose this one because of the bed. You’re the only person I’ve met who won’t look out of place on this relic.”

I thanked him and we both looked at the armoire.

“I guess you’ll need a change of clothes,” he remarked. “There are some spare shirts and trousers in there. They belonged to one of the servants and you are very welcome to them.”

My suitcase was at Elio’s apartment so I accepted the offer. I was shown were the bathroom and kitchen were and then was left to take possession of my new quarters.

I opened the shutters and inhaled the unpolluted air: I was convinced that I had been right to stay. I needed calm and peace of mind to find Peter and Le Domaine already felt like home.

***

I had borrowed a van from the butcher so that I could bring Olivier his suitcase. There was no real hurry, since the armoires and chests at Le Domaine were overflowing with leftover garments. All the same, this wasn’t merely an excuse to see him again, I told myself: I had to make sure he and Papa had found a suitable arrangement and that there was no animosity on either side.

It was late afternoon but the sun was implacable; the cicadas chanted loudly and waves of heat surged from the scorched earth.

I imagined that Olivier would be resting in his room or reading a book that Papa had lent him; what I had not anticipated was the vision that suddenly appeared before my unprepared eyes: Olivier had removed his shirt so that his torso was covered only by a white cotton vest that clung to every inch of his skin, drenched as it was with sweat. He was mowing the grass with a scythe, and as he bent down the worn fabric of his trousers stretched over the curves of his buttocks.

He turned to look in my direction and I ground to a halt making a great deal of noise.

“That was some entrance,” he joked, as he mopped his forehead with his discarded shirt.

I didn’t know where to look; or rather I did, but there were too many places I wanted to cover and not only with my eyes.

“Yesterday you almost passed out,” I barked, not quite sure why I was so angry all of a sudden. “If you faint here, you’ll bake like a baguette.”

He gazed at me with vague amusement.

“This is what I am here for: work” he replied. “It wasn’t the heat, yesterday. I was tense and tired.”

I was close enough to smell his armpits and I wished that disgusted me, but it had the opposite effect. I knew his secret but he didn’t know mine, which gave me the upper hand. Being a mystery to him excited me, but that could easily become a trap I might not be able to escape.

“I’ve brought your things,” I said, “But I see that you are coping without them.”

"Your father let me have these.”

“How did you get on?”

He smiled. “Very well, I think. He’s a charming man.”

“Unlike his son,” I blurted out.

“I never said that,” he replied, staring me straight in the face.

I couldn’t stand it any longer; I was certain that if I stayed near him, the magnetism that attracts one body to the other would force me into his arms, and that I would lose any common decency and have at him like a starved man.

I had gone too long without carnal relations and I was paying the price.

“Come on, you need a drink of water,” I said, and climbed back into the van.

Mariette brought us a carafe of chilled lemonade and two glasses.

“Monsieur Perlman is resting,” she said, in reply to my query.

I watched Olivier’s bristly neck as he swallowed the drink; his satisfied sigh irritated and aroused me in equal measure. He’d put his shirt back on but had left it unbuttoned, his chest hair sprouted from the high neckline and from the hollow of his throat.

“Which room are you staying in?” I asked, as I set the glass back on the table.

“The one with the boat-bed,” he replied, pouring himself some more lemonade.

“It was a servant’s room,” I noted.

The pad of his thumb collected the drops of condensation from the glass; he licked it in a matter-of-fact way, unaware of the effect it had on my blood pressure.

“I don’t mind,” he said. “I am a servant, in a manner of speaking.”

“And my father is your master.”

He looked at me and smirked.

“He’s not the one I take orders from, is he?”

I stood up so fast I saw black dots swimming all over my field of vision.

“Could you do me a favour?” I asked, my voice all rough and croaky.

“You drank too quickly,” he said, and his hand was on my back, hot like a brand.

I took a step back and he released me.

“What is it you wanted me to do?” he enquired.

My imagination supplied a quantity of suggestions none of them appropriate. I decided that it would be advisable to put some distance between myself and Olivier, so I walked out of the room.

“I have some scores I wish you to deliver to an address in Lavaurette,” I said, as I went to fetch them.

Olivier understood and didn’t follow me. When I returned, he had done up his shirt and looked more formal, less inviting.

“Here,” I handed him the music scores. “There are these two children named Julien and Jacob. Their parents have been sent to a camp so they are staying with a widow, an ex-teacher named Darel. They are hiding there, so I’d rather not be seen in the vicinity. Nobody really knows you and you look German, so they’ll leave you alone.”

He had listened attentively and seemed unconvinced.

“This isn’t the only reason why you’d rather not go,” he said. “You don’t want to be asked to play the piano.”

A bubble of anger burst out of me and I couldn’t contain it.

“You know everything don’t you? So why is it that you don’t know whether your Peter is alive or not?”

His wounded expression made me wish I could turn back the clock.

“I’m sorry,” I said, slumping down on a chair. “I haven’t been myself these past few days. And now Auguste has left us.”

“What happened?”

“He’s left to join the Maquis in Northern France,” I explained. “I don’t want to call Limoges too often, in case we are intercepted.”

He scratched the back of his head.

“Maybe I could help, if you think I would not be in the way.”

“This isn’t like delivering packages,” I said, “Are you sure you want to get involved?”

He cast me an inscrutable look.

“I am already involved,” he replied.


	9. Acquiescence

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Oliver has an interesting day (and evening)
> 
> Oliver's POV

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> The facts related by Samuel are true (except for his presence obviously)
> 
> The acquiescence quote belongs to René Char, a French poet and member of the French Resistance

I left the bicycle outside the gate and knocked on Madame Darel’s door.

Elio had given me the sheet music and directions to the woman’s house in addition to instructing me about the lies I should feed the kids.

“Tell them you are not sure where their parents are, but if they insist, say that they have gone to Paris and leave it at that,” he’d said.

“What do you think happened to them?”

His expression had been grim so I had not insisted.

Elio had been angry with me since he’d come back with my suitcase. I’d wondered whether he was already regretting taking me in or if his annoyance had a more personal reason. When I’d caught him glaring at my unbuttoned shirt, I’d felt a bit nauseous. His acceptance of my sexual preferences didn’t mean that he approved of them or that he wasn’t put off by seeing me sweaty and half-undressed. I had hastened to fix my appearance while he was gone and on his return, he’d been less tense, which had confirmed my suspicions. I promised myself to be more guarded around him: I was his guest and while he was tolerant, I shouldn’t test his boundaries too blatantly.

The door was opened by a curvaceous young girl with bright eyes and round cheeks. I told her my name and mentioned the reason I was there.

She let me in and ushered me into the front room.

“Please take a seat, Monsieur,” she said, smiling. “I’ll inform Madame that you are here.”

I sat on a cretonne-covered armchair and admired the elegant simplicity of the room.

Its owner came in and I stood up to introduce myself. She offered me a powdered cheek and I kissed it lightly.

Before we could engage in conversation, the girl sailed in to enquire whether we wanted any refreshments.

“Iced lemonade, please,” said Madame Darel, after having consulted with me. The girl bowed in assent and left, swaying her hips in a marked manner.

“You have to forgive Solange,” the lady of the house said, with a sigh, “Nearly all the young men have gone to war and the few left are spoken for.”

I was debating whether to mention Elio, but she preceded me.

“Your friend has a fiancée in Paris, as you surely know already,” she went on. “I don’t like gossip, but that Bobotte woman at Elio’s office listens in to half his conversations, and she’s friends with Solange.”

“It’s hard having to be apart, especially while Paris is occupied,” I said, thinking of Peter with a sudden pang of guilt. He was all the more real to me now that I’d had confirmation that I was alone in my predicament.

“She must have made her life there,” Madame Darel replied. “But Elio had to leave after the Statute on Jews came into effect.”

The blood drained from my face.

“Is he,” I stammered, feeling stupid and slow. “I wasn’t aware that he’d been in such immediate danger.”

She looked at me, her piercing eyes probing mine. Thankfully, Solange came in and deposed the tray with the carafe and glasses on the low table at my feet. She gazed up, with a flirty fluttering of eyelashes. I thanked her and so did her employer.

When the door clicked shut, Madame Darel leaned towards me.

“They aren’t practising Jews, but it won’t matter once this madness hurtles towards its inevitable conclusion. There is no sense in it, so it can’t be defeated with words. Only blood will do which is why we must do all we can to save the innocent.”

I poured the icy lemonade into the glasses and gulped down half of mine.

“How are the boys doing?” I asked, as she sipped her drink.

“Jacob is still too young to understand but Julien is at that stage when he’s slowly piecing the world together. He’s a smart child and I’m afraid he will suffer greatly and that I won’t be able to prevent it.”

My heart felt like a fist had closed around it and squeezed it.

“Do you think that I could meet them?”

She smiled. “Of course,” she replied. “They are playing in their room, but they’ll be glad to see a new face.”

“Icarus’ wings were made of wax?” Julien marvelled. He was sitting crossed-legged on the rug, his chin cupped in his hands, and staring at me with unblinking eyes. “And who made them?”

“His father did,” I replied.

At that, Jacob, who had wondered off to grab a toy soldier, interrupted me to ask. “Where is my papa?”

I knew the question was coming but it shook me all the same.

“I don’t know exactly, but I am sure that he’ll come back.”

“And Maman?”

“She’s with him. They are taking care of each other.”

Julien frowned. “Why aren’t they here to take care of us?” he asked.

“Sometimes, in times of emergency, grown-ups have to travel far from their homes, but they always do their best to come back.”

“Like Odysseus?”

I let out a shaky breath. “Yes, precisely like him,” I replied, and rested my hand on his head in a soft caress.

When it was time to leave, and the Chopin and Saint-Saëns sheet music had passed hands, Madame Darel seemed to hesitate about something.

“Is it about the boys?” I asked.

“It could be,” she replied, finally. “Look, you seem like a nice man and I’m going to have to trust you. Outside, sitting on the bench at the end of this street, is a school teacher named Benech. Elio believes he’s harmless but I don’t. I’m afraid he suspects that I’m sheltering someone and I’m almost sure that he snoops. He may try to talk to you.”

“I won’t say a word, you have to believe me,” I said.

She patted my arm. “I do,” she replied. “Just be on your guard.”

Madame Darel had been right.

As soon as I approached him, Benech, a middle-aged man with thinning hair and a sallow complexion, addressed me as though he’d been waiting just for me.

“Lovely day, isn’t it?”

“Quite,” I replied, straddling my bicycle.

“You are new around here,” he went on. “How come you know Madame Darel?”

I suppressed the impulse to tell him to mind his own business.

“She used to teach an old friend of mine.”

He nodded his head. “Great teacher she was,” he said. “Pity that she’s retired: we need more like her now that we’ve finally got rid of the Jewish ones.”

“You are in favour of the new laws,” I remarked.

“And you are not?”

“The law must be respected,” I said, “But is it truly a French law if it’s imposed by a foreign power?”

I left him to ponder my words and rode swiftly away.

I reached Le Domaine in need of a wash and a change of clothes so I headed straight to my room. I loved it already, as though it had been mine in the distant past and I’d been restored to it after a long trip, like Odysseus returning to Ithaca.

Refreshed, I decided to finish mowing the grass before I tackled the vegetable garden. End of August was a good time for sowing lettuce, chard and cabbage, or so I’d been told by Mariette, and I’d intended to go back to Lavaurette to purchase what I needed.

“How is Madame Darel?”

Samuel had emerged from his studio and caught me as I was running down the stairs.

“She’s fine,” I replied, looking up at him.

He gestured for me to come into his room so I retraced my steps and did as told.

Samuel had offered me a cigarette and I had lit mine and his too.

“Elio seldom tells me things, but I am not as blissfully unaware as he thinks,” he said, walking up to one of the large windows.

I joined him, and admired the landscape, the land dotted with vineyards and orchards; the constant chant of the cicadas was like the sound of distant thunder.

“Today is three months since one of my closest friends was shot,” he murmured.

I swallowed my spit and coughed.

“I’m sorry,” I croaked. “You don’t have to tell me but I’m here if you wish to.”

“Acquiescence illuminates the face. Refusal gives it beauty,” he quoted, with a pained smile. “That’s what he used to say. He disliked the_ attentisme_ of most intellectuals. Sitting on the fence is not an option, we must fight: he always told me. He and his friends used to publish this subversive pamphlet, _La Pansée Libre_, and he convinced me to write a few articles for it.”

I waited in silence for him to continue.

“I never told Elio, I didn’t want to get him into trouble. I wasn’t an active participant which is why I wasn’t arrested. I was no longer in Paris when he was captured. I didn’t even know he was dead until after he’d already been executed.”

His eyes were wet and I couldn’t look at them. I touched his shoulder and he sighed.

“His name was Georges Politzer,” he murmured. “And he was a philosopher not a soldier.”

“Did Elio know about your friendship?”

“Yes, and I believe that he despises me for my perceived indifference.”

“A pose that you cultivate in order to protect him,” I suggested.

Samuel’s brown eyes met mine.

“He’s all I have and I love him above everything,” he stated, simply.

That evening, Elio joined us for dinner. He was wearing the navy blue trousers I’d seen in his bedroom and a patterned shirt with its sleeves rolled up to his elbows.

He told us about his work and I informed him and Samuel about my plans for the garden. After coffee, Samuel left us and went back to his room.

“Tell me about the kids,” Elio said, while we took a stroll outside.

We were walking among the peach trees and the ripe fruit were dangling from the gnarly boughs. He plucked one, almost distractedly, and bit down on it. The juice ran down his chin and the back of his hand.

While I was recounting what had happened at Madame Darel’s, he licked and sucked on his fingers, and I was glad for the darkness that allowed me to watch him more directly that I’d have been allowed to in daylight.

“Want some?” he asked, offering me the half-eaten peach.

“Why not,” I replied, and put the fruit in my mouth, stroking the pulp with my tongue on the same spot where his tongue had just been. It was almost like a kiss, and the texture of the peach was slippery and warm like the inside of a mouth or another intimate place, which I’d wanted to taste but Peter had never allowed me to. “It’s filthy,” he’d said, pushing me away. I had insisted that I didn’t care, that I wanted to, and he’d laughed and joked about my lack of restraint, but I’d sensed that I’d hit on a barrier that would never come down and that’d I’d better cease and desist. I hadn’t asked again, but the curiosity hadn’t waned.

“Did you think about what we discussed last night?” he asked, jolting me out of my reminiscences.

“Nothing to think about,” I replied, “You tell me what to do and I’ll do it.”

He watched me closely and in the dark his green eyes shone like a cat’s.

And as stealthy as a feline, he reached out and touched my moustache with the tip of his middle finger. I stopped chewing and waited, holding my breath.

He gave me a small, tight-lipped smile before dropping his hand.

“I suggest you shave,” he said. “You look too much like an aristocrat. No one will believe you are toiling on a farm.”

I grimaced, pretending to be annoyed. “Pity,” I said, “I had grown attached to it.”

He snorted. “I wouldn’t know the feeling,” he quipped.

“Can’t you grow a beard yet?” I joked.

“I doubt I ever will,” he replied. “That doesn’t mean I’m still a boy.”

The night around us was velvety and still.

“Madame Darel told me about your fiancée in Paris,” I blurted out. “I’m sorry that you had to part.”

His eyes narrowed into slits. “That Bobotte gossip,” he spat out. “Trust her to blab every chance she gets.”

“Nothing to be ashamed about,” I argued. “The war has forced many a separation.”

He scowled at me. “I am not ashamed,” he hissed. “I spread that rumour on purpose.”

“You mean that you didn’t leave her?”

Elio’s expression was defiant and angry. “I mean that she never existed.”


	10. Explosions

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Plot happens and then... other stuff also happens.
> 
> I apologise for the cliffhanger. I swear it was not done on purpose.
> 
> Elio's POV/Oliver's POV

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> First of all, thanks so much for the kudos, comments and support.
> 
> Secondly: it is very well known that the Nazis stole art from Jewish collectors and galleries but they also looted French museums. They even burnt dozens of paintings of what they called "degenerate art", including Braque, Picasso and other surrealists.

It was too soon, I thought, to confess all of my secrets.

As it was, Olivier was already present in so many areas of my life that it would have been madness to unlock yet another door for him.

“You have met Solange,” I said, and he nodded. “Juliette was trying to play matchmaker and I don’t have the time or the inclination for that sort of things.”

“The fiancée is a ruse,” he remarked.

“I don’t want to be tied down,” I replied, coldly. “I take my pleasures where I can, easy come, easy go.”

He disposed of the pit of the fruit we’d just shared by flinging it as far as he could; it was a powerful throw and it left me momentarily at a loss for words.

“I wish I could be more like you,” he murmured. “In my case, it would be too dangerous.”

I hated myself in that moment, but I couldn’t face telling him the truth.

“You have found someone to love,” I said, “And I never have: seems to me you are the one doing it right.”

I guessed what his next words were going to be.

“Have you heard anything about Mirabel?”

“Not a peep,” I answered, truthfully. “It appears that the Maquis is smuggling people and weapons out of the country via Spain. Maybe Peter is there already.”

“If only I knew who to ask,” he exclaimed. “I would take care of it myself so you wouldn’t be in any danger.”

I felt a sudden surge of anger.

“And get yourself shot?” I spat out. “You may look like an Aryan but if you are caught spying they won’t show you any mercy.”

He covered his face with both hands. I stared at them: size of a brute’s, elegance of a craftsman’s. I imagined them all over my naked skin and had to bite back a sigh.

“I’m sorry,” he muttered, “I won’t do anything rash, I promise.”

“Let’s go back inside,” I said. “I’ll tell you about the next intervention, if you are still sure you want to help us.”

“Yes, of course,” he replied.

We walked side by side and we were already inside the front door when he stopped me, fingers closing around my shoulder.

“I don’t like it when you say that,” he said, softly. “That I look like an Aryan. I was born like this, I didn’t choose it. You make it sound like it's an unforgivable sin. If you despise me for other reasons, you better say it. I’d rather you were honest with me.”

He’d rendered me speechless yet again.

When I finally managed to talk, all I could say was, “I don’t, I never, please accept my apologies.”

He gave me a half-smile and closed the door behind me.

Olivier was looking at me as if I’d magically grown a second head.

“When you say Vermeer, you mean _the _Vermeer?”

“Yes, that’s what I said: Vermeer, Hals, Cranach the Elder.”

“And the paintings are on that train you are planning to blow up,” he said, slowly.

“Not the train, the rail tracks,” I explained. “We are not planting the explosives either: that’s the other group. We’ll cause a diversion by shooting at the Germans, while our friends on the other side retrieve the paintings and cart them off to some undisclosed location.”

His eyes went comically wide.

“You know how to use a gun, I hope," I said.

“Yes, it was part of my training,” he replied. “What sort of weapon are we talking about?”

“A Mauser 98k rifle,” I said, “The spoils of war.”

“I’ve handled German weapons before; I should be fine.”

I showed him the map of the area and the location of the operation.

“We’ll meet at the farm where we took you that first night,” I explained. “Eight on the dot; we’ll get ready and set off soon after. It will take us fifteen minutes by bicycle. Wear something dark, possibly black.”

“Are you coming here first?”

“No, we’ll meet there, us and Octave. You don’t have to carry anything with you: we’ll find everything we need at the farm.”

He scratched the stubble on his chin.

“I’m starting to understand why you drink so much.”

“I don’t,” I growled. “I’m cutting back,” I clarified, more calmly. “But I will have my brandy flask with me tomorrow night.”

“That’s good to know,” he chuckled.

“Are you laughing at me?”

“Maybe a little,” he joked, but he immediately turned serious. “It’s very honourable, what you are doing. Those paintings don’t belong to the Germans.”

“According to our cowardly government, Jewish people have no nationality hence no properties.”

He grimaced and looked away.

“I feel a bit like that sometimes,” he whispered.

“Don’t you feel British?”

“My childhood was--- eventful,” he replied. “My heritage is divided.”

“Which explains why you speak fluent French,” I concluded.

“Poitiers,” he said. “I wish I could go back there; maybe once the war is over--”

“Do you have family there?”

“In a way,” he answered. It was clear that he didn’t want to talk about it, so I went over the details of the operation once more, said goodnight and rode back home.

***

I spent the following day in the fields, working hard in order to keep my worries at bay. I’d lived under the bombs but I’d never shot anyone. Later that very day, I might kill or be killed; I might be wounded or, worse, something might happen to Elio.

Samuel came out of his room to have dinner with me. The look in his eye told me that he was aware of the situation but that he wouldn’t mention it.

“Have you heard from Elio?” he asked.

“We are going out for drinks,” I replied, glancing at my watch. “I’ll have to go soon.”

“Black suits you,” he remarked. “And it hides a multitude of sins.”

“I don’t have any,” I quipped.

He smiled. “I’m sure you are not quite as blameless as you would have me believe,” he said. “But you’ll look after Elio, won’t you?”

“Elio seems to be rather good at looking after himself,” I argued.

“He thinks he does and perhaps he’s right.”

“But you don’t agree with him.”

Samuel tilted his head to one side. “His load would be lighter if he shared it with someone he cares for.”

I was in a hurry or at least that was my excuse for ending that conversation.

Octave and Elio were already there when I arrived.

“I hope I am not late,” I said.

“Perfect timing,” replied Octave, “Good to see you again.”

He had the same sardonic expression that I remembered but I told him I was glad to see him, too. Elio ignored me, occupied as he was with packing the rucksacks with guns, ammunitions and electric torches.

“Shouldn’t we test the weapons to see if they work?” I asked.

“Did that already,” he replied, without looking at me. “Unless you don’t trust me and want to do it yourself.”

Octave sniggered and took a sip from his hipflask.

“Leave Romain alone,” he said to me. “He’s in a mood. Maybe his fiancée ditched him for a Parisian.”

That reminded me that in this company I still had to address Elio as Romain.

“Shut up,” the latter said. “This is for later.” He handed each of us a balaclava.

“Ready?” he asked. We said yes, and Octave switched the light off.

The train was due to arrive at that junction at 8:30. It was always punctual, Elio had explained, because it seldom carried passengers, unless they were prisoners taken to a camp. I glanced at my watch: five minutes to the explosion. We’d found shelter behind some shrubs and we were waiting, rifles at the ready. I was sweating already and I was hoping the beads of perspiration wouldn’t impede my vision. Elio turned towards me and hissed: “When it’s time, do as I say. And remember to stay down. You’re taller than anything around here.”

Octave snorted. “He’s not a giant.”

“Close enough.”

Their bickering was interrupted by the noise of the approaching train.

“Here we go,” Elio whispered.

I looked on, mesmerized, waiting for the inevitable to happen.

When it did, it reminded me of the time Peter and I had to seek shelter in the underground as the incendiaries rained down on the Strand.

The blast seemed even louder in that rural quiet and the light soon transmuted into smoke.

“Now,” Elio shouted.

He ran towards the head of the train and started shooting.

I lost sight of Octave but I heard shots being fired from where I assumed he must have taken position.

There were screams and orders being in given, in French and German, but I couldn’t understand a word of them.

What followed was chaotic and happening in what seemed like slow-motion: we could barely see what we were doing and they were shooting at random, never coming close to hitting any of us.

Once only, I’d felt a bullet zing past me and for a terrifying instant I had feared that Elio had been hit.

“I fucking told you to stay down,” he screamed.

I ducked behind a tree to reload my rifle, and as I was about to jump out again, a car horn honked twice.

“That’s the sign,” Elio shouted. “Let’s go!”

Octave, who had been ahead of us, was already running towards the appointed spot, where we’d left our bikes.

“What the hell?” I swore, as we cycled towards Le Domaine.

Elio was pedalling like a madman and despite being a lot taller, I could barely keep up with him.

“Use those long legs of yours, Monsieur Armand,” he screamed back.

We had emptied his brandy flask and the adrenaline had added to the effect of the alcohol: I felt alive and slightly hysterical.

He turned towards me to say something funny or insulting, and in doing that he lost his balance. He didn’t fall but he was forced to slow down.

“Are you alright?” I asked when I caught up with him.

“We did it,” he replied, and burst into peals of laughter. He looked young and carefree, his face as smooth as a child’s and his eyes as guileless. I laughed too, and wished for that fragile truce to last forever.

“I’m staying here tonight,” he announced, when we got to Le Domaine.

“Yes, thought as much,” I replied.

I wasn’t sleepy but I needed to lie down.

“My legs are like jelly,” I said, as I got off my bicycle.

“I noticed,” he replied, dismounting his with a jump.

“Show off,” I quipped.

“Better that than huffing and puffing like an old man.”

I elbowed him and he kicked my shin.

“Enough,” I pleaded. “Like you said, I’m an old man and I need some rest.”

“One for the road?” he asked. “I have a bottle of whisky in my room.”

That sounded tempting, but perhaps too tempting.

“I’d love to, but I’m afraid I’m going to be sick.”

It was only half a lie, since the hangover was starting to kick in.

“I’ll smoke the last one,” he said, lighting one of his Gitanes; I said goodnight and climbed up the stairs to my room.

I was so high on fear and relief that I thought I wouldn’t go to sleep, but as soon as I closed my eyes, I was gone.

I woke up thirsty, my body on fire. I had dreamed of Peter, our first night together, but there had been parts of it which had been added on, and glimpses of limbs that were too slender and pale to belong to either of us.

My prick was still stuck in the dream, and when I reached down to grab it, I realised that I was naked. I moaned loudly, and in the silence of the house, it seemed to echo like an explosion.

“Oh god,” I whimpered, as I pulled on my sex, arching my back to feel the rough texture of the sheets brush against my ass. With the other hand, I plucked at my nipples, pinching them harder and harder, until they were sore and in need of a soothing kiss.

My eyes had been shut all along, but I opened them to search for the water I’d placed on my bedside table.

The door was open and someone was standing on the threshold.

“I’m sorry,” Elio whispered. “I heard you, I thought you were sick.”

We stared at each other in the scant light of the moon.


	11. A Room of Their Own

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> The boys do... stuff and then they talk and another, small, cliffhanger happens. Sorry.
> 
> Oliver's POV/Elio's POV

Elio’s presence stunned me, but also strangely compounded the unreality of that moment.

“I was dreaming,” I murmured.

“Yes,” he said, “Close your eyes.”

It was easy to do as he asked and pretend that I was still sleeping.

I didn’t hear his footsteps, but felt the mattress dip when he sat on the bed.

My body alternated between hot and cold sweats: it hadn’t been touched for a while and I feared that it would reject this interference.

I couldn’t have been more wrong, for Elio gave me exactly what I desired.

He licked the swollen nubs of my nipples, slicked them with spit, while using his fingers to pinch and scratch the one he wasn’t sucking.

My sex had thickened again, and I stroked it roughly, almost painfully.

The ache spread from my groin to my chest to the back of my head, and it was only later that I realised that Elio was yanking a fistful of my hair.

We were quiet, aside from my low moans and his grunts. I didn’t reach out for him but I smelled the smoke in his curls and relished their silky texture on my skin.

My orgasm was sudden and copious: a pool of semen that Elio drank to the last drop.

He came too, after letting out a stifled groan.

When he moved away from me, I finally opened my eyes again.

“Sweet dreams,” he said, and was about to leave. His right hand was balled into a fist. I grabbed it and brought it to my mouth. I uncurled its fingers: they were wet and sticky. I lapped at the mess on its palm, licked it all up.

As soon as I was done, I lay back down and went to sleep, with Elio's bittersweet taste on my tongue.

The following morning I woke up with a scratchy throat and a confused mind.

I might have believed in the fiction of dreams had I not been bearing the marks of Elio’s teeth on my chest.

I washed with cold water and went down to breakfast feeling like a penitent at Lent.

Elio was alone at the table, drinking coffee.

“Good morning,” I said. “I thought you’d left already.”

He didn’t turn towards me, his head stayed bent over his plate.

“Thought or hoped?” he replied.

I sat opposite him and watched as he tried to cut the top off a soft-boiled egg.

“You are not doing it right,” I commented. “I can show you if you like.”

He ignored me and dunked a piece of bread into the yolk.

We ate in silence for a while, until Mariette came in to inform Elio that she was going to do some shopping in Lavaurette.

“Ask Papa if he needs anything,” Elio said, but the woman replied that she knew what she was doing and that Monsieur Perlman was working in his study and didn’t want to be disturbed.

After Mariette had left, Elio poured himself another coffee and lit a cigarette, completely ignoring me.

“Look,” I started, not quite sure how to proceed but convinced that I should at least try, “I know that you are not--- like me, and I’m not holding it against---”

Elio blew a cloud of smoke in my face.

“No, you are right, I am not like you,” he gritted out.

“You never said---”

“It was none of your business.”

“It is now, don’t you think?”

We glared at each other across the Gitanes’ fog.

“You’re feeling guilty because of Peter,” he said. “And I’m not interested in hashing it out with you.”

“You came into my room, uninvited,” I countered, angrily.

His back straightened and he looked like a viper ready to strike.

“Are you saying that, what, that I molested you?”

I briefly considered lying but couldn’t.

“No, I very much wanted it, but you can’t act as if I hadn’t caught you watching while I---” I was too embarrassed to continue, but Elio had no such problems.

“While you brought yourself off,” he said, looking me in the eye. “Like I said, I heard a noise and since before going to bed you’d said you were going to be sick, I went to your room to make sure you were alright.”

“How is that possible? I wasn’t that noisy and your room isn’t in the tower.”

A pink blush coloured his cheeks.

“I couldn’t sleep,” he muttered. “When I’m like that, I usually take a walk.”

“A walk around the house, like a ghost,” I joked.

He smirked. “It’s a big house and I didn’t fancy going outside.”

“Liar,” I said, smiling, and he didn’t contradict me. Instead, he slid the pack of cigarettes towards me. “Truce?” he asked, and I nodded my head.

There was something I meant to find out which would have more easily said with a drink or two in me, but I was afraid lest I’d lose my nerve.

“How did you know what I needed?”

He bit his lips and massaged the back of his neck.

“I’d been watching you: that’s how,” he murmured.

That never helped before, I thought.

“It was only a matter of minutes,” I insisted.

Elio flashed me a wicked grin. “They were good minutes.”

I stretched my legs out and my feet collided with his.

That point of contact between our bodies seemed to spur him into the avowal that came soon after. He disposed of his cigarette-end and drank the rest of his coffee.

“The men I go for,” he said, with a tinge of defiance in his tone and expression. “They usually don’t let me indulge.”

“What men---”

He chewed the inside of his cheek. “Men like you,” he bit out. “Because they are bigger and stronger, they assume the role that I’m supposed to play.”

When I spoke, my voice sounded different to my own ears.

“Men like me,” I repeated, stolidly.

Elio laughed but his eyes weren’t in it.

“Just because I’m not much to look at doesn’t mean I’m not allowed to aim higher.”

It was my turn to laugh.

“What are you talking about,” I replied. “When you were sprawled on your sofa, you looked like Renaissance art.”

His eyes went wide. “When did you see me on my sofa?”

Well, I’d walked right into it like an idiot.

“I may have stumbled into the wrong room that time at your apartment.”

“At least I wasn’t abusing myself,” he said, smugly. After a beat or two, he added, “So you find me attractive and we are stuck here, for lord knows how long.”

My mouth was dry and the part of my shin that was touching Elio’s was tingling with electricity. The war seemed far away; the life I’d lived in London was as unreal to me as the concept of nationalism; Peter was the reason I was in France and I didn’t know whether he was alive or dead.

Elio guessed the turn my thoughts had taken.

“It doesn’t have to mean anything,” he said. “I may be dead before the war is over and you’ll go back home.”

I shuddered. “Don’t say that,” I pleaded. “Never again.”

“We have to face the truth,” he argued. “And make the most of the time we have.”

It was an eminently logical way of living life in dangerous times, but I abhorred how cold and mercenary it was.

He shook his head. “It’s not like you think,” he said, and, lowering his voice to a hot whisper. “I need to feel the weight of your naked body on mine.”

I couldn’t have said no if I’d tried.

“I’ll show you the room now, if you want,” Elio said, “Or I could take you there when I come back and we could---”

I laughed. “I’m sure I can wait until tonight.”

His face clouded over.

“I will be gone for a while,” he replied. “The project I’m working on requires my presence on site. And after what happened last night, I better make myself scarce.”

“They have no idea it’s you,” I exclaimed.

“No, but I don’t want to be around when they start asking questions. The Germans don’t like being played for fools.”

“Will they come here? Tell me what to say in case they do.”

“They won’t, but if they do, act stupid,” he said. “It shouldn’t be hard, considering,” he grinned.

I kicked him in the ankle.

“What,” he protested. “I swallowed your come and you were still wondering whether I liked men.”

***

Olivier was going to be trouble: that much I knew.

I had been lost the moment my lips had touched his skin. The scent of him, the sounds he uttered at every stroke, the solidness of his body: I wanted him so much I could hardly breathe.

My first impulse had been to replace his hand with my hand or with my mouth, but somehow I’d guessed that he wouldn’t have liked that, and not for the most obvious reasons.

He wanted a specific something and in that moment, I’d known what it was and I’d given it to him. Such a simple thing, and yet it didn’t often happen to me, nor, I suspected, to Olivier.

There was a lack of ease in his nudity that was more eloquent than a confession.

I feared that he would be overcome with guilt and that he would pretend nothing had happened, but I hadn’t imagined that he’d refuse to understand that I was like him, that I too liked men, that I very much liked and desired him.

I was going to be honest, but not as candid as he’d forced me to be.

The truth was that I’d tried many things with many different men, but I wanted to try all things with one man.

And that man was in love with someone else.

“How long will you be away?” he asked, after I’d told him about my planned absence.

I had postponed my trip several times already, but it could no longer wait. The practice I’d worked for had been aryanised and even if the development company that had taken over the contract had retained me as an architect, I doubted they wouldn’t be forced to get rid of me at some point in the not too distant future.

“A couple of weeks,” I replied, but it was a lie. It would probably be a month before I returned to Lavaurette. I was going to have to work hard to get most of the restoration underway before the Germans invaded our side of the country.

It had been crazy of me to start things off with Olivier when I knew that I was going to leave, but I could no more resist him than I could shout Sieg Heil.

“I’d like to see the room,” he said, in a low, caressing voice that made my toes curl.

We climbed the stairs to the first floor and I took Olivier through a maze of narrow corridors until we reached what looked like the door of a cupboard. It was locked and I had both keys. I opened it and went in after him.

It was a tiny room with just enough space for a bed, a bedside table and a dresser. The walls were white and bare and the narrow window had thick linen curtains.

“The bed is minuscule,” he remarked.

“We won’t have to sleep in it,” I argued, and that caused him to snigger.

He went up to the dresser and opened a drawer.

“Clean sheets,” I said, “Mariette never comes in here, so we’ll have to do our own housekeeping.”

He looked around with a sort of childlike wonder.

“I’ve never had a place like this,” he murmured, “Somewhere away from the world.”

“You never had a secret garden?”

He shrugged. “I was not an interesting child.”

“I very much doubt that,” I said.

Our eyes met and I wondered whether it was too soon to kiss him. No harm in trying.

“Can I kiss you?”

“Yes, please,” Olivier replied, and closed his eyes.


	12. Parting

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Things never go as they should in this story... apologies...
> 
> Oliver's POV/Elio's POV

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> The Schloss collection was seized in April 1943, so I tweaked the dates a little.

With my eyes shut, I saw Peter’s unguarded expression the first time he’d kissed me; I felt his fingers on my face, on my neck. He was lying somewhere, maybe seriously hurt and wishing I was there with him, while I was on the verge of betraying his trust.

“I’m sorry,” I said, taking a step back, “I don’t think I can.”

Elio’s reaction was one of blank acceptance.

“I understand,” he replied. “Perhaps I’d do the same if I were you.”

I drew a deep breath. “When are you leaving?”

“Early afternoon,” he said, closing the drawer I’d opened. “I have a few matters to attend to before I go.”

“The children,” I suggested.

“Among other things,” he replied, with a whiff of impatience. “If you are thinking of visiting them while I am away, please be careful.”

“The stakes are high, I’m well aware.”

“Are you?” he sneered. “And are you also aware that I may not return, that a snitch may tell on me, that I could be tortured and killed?”

I grabbed him by the shoulders and shook him.

“Stop it,” I snapped. “I told you not to say this kind of things.”

He pushed me away and scowled, his lips a compressed, livid line.

“Don’t pretend you care about me,” he said, “It’s your man you are afraid for.”

“You are not being fair,” I protested.

“Fair?” he spat out. “Is that fair that a Jewish person should be deprived of their rights and freedoms? After all is said and done, you don’t quite see what the fuss is about. You and your gentile lover are fighting the good fight: who cares what happens in those _work camps_ miles away from your benighted island?”

I wanted to hit him, so I strode out of the room.

“You’re only insulting me because I rejected you,” I said, “At least be honest about that,” and slammed the door behind me.

I was furious that Elio had turned my refusal against me, with his barely veiled suggestion that I was discriminating against him because of his Jewish roots.

When I calmed down, after three sweaty hours of digging and pulling up nettles, I asked myself if there was anything in his allegations. I’d never subscribed to the latent, and sometimes blatant, racism that infested the English middle-upper classes, and had often felt a stranger, an onlooker, rather than one of them. I wasn’t religious and would always pick Darwin over any sacred scripture. Elio couldn’t possibly believe that my qualms had anything to do with his ancestry, could he? I shook my head. No, he’d just been upset and had lashed out. He wasn’t the only one to be disappointed: I wasn’t exactly jumping for joy at having turned him down.

I had wanted him and I still did, but it had felt wrong to rush into what could have been a disastrous mistake. Besides, the cold and unemotional side of his nature repelled me; and if he was as rapacious as he’d hinted, he’d find some other source of release, another burly man to pleasure. The image made me wince, so I didn’t linger on it.

I went in for a quick lunch of bread and cheese, and found Samuel intent on reading the local paper.

“Big incident last night,” he said, as I washed my hands at the kitchen sink. “A train was derailed and looted. A dozen paintings were stolen, among them a Vermeer and two Rembrandts.”

Elio had not mentioned Rembrandt, the little scoundrel, I mused somewhat fondly.

“Oh really,” I replied, feigning disinterest.

“That’s what the paper says,” Samuel continued. “I wouldn’t call it stealing though, considering that the real thieves were on that train.”

“Where did the paintings come from?”

There was genuine curiosity in my tone, since Elio had not told me the provenance of those artworks.

“The Schloss family,” he replied. “Their estate is in the occupied zone, so they moved their treasures to a villa they own in the South. An informer must have tracked them down.”

“That’s disgusting,” I said, “Betraying his own people to the enemy.”

Samuel gave me a pained smile.

“They don’t see Jews as their equals,” he remarked. “To them they are vermin that need stamping out.”

I sat down and started cutting the bread.

“I hope you don’t think of me as one of them,” I said, my eyes fixed on the knife.

“My dear boy, you are as sound as the foundations of this house,” he replied. “And you’ll grow old as gracefully, if I may be allowed to hazard a guess.”

I laughed. “Hopefully I won’t require too many renovations.”

His impish grin reminded me of his son. “There are those who specialize in such long-term projects.”

I smeared salted butter on my slice of bread.

“Do you know that Elio is going away?”

“To that monastery he’s converting into a hotel,” he replied. “Yes, he mentioned it but he was always finding reasons not to go.”

I suddenly felt a pang of guilt: Samuel was going to miss his son and I had perhaps contributed in keeping Elio away from Le Domaine.

“I’m sure he will come to say goodbye before he goes.”

Samuel poured me a glass of red wine.

“Elio hates goodbyes,” he said. “When he was a kid, I used to travel to give lectures. His mother brought him to the train station once, but he wouldn’t stop crying. It was the last time he came to see me off.”

I had been counting on his return so that I could apologise; I disliked that we’d parted on such bad terms.

Just as I was considering the possibility of going to his office, I heard Mariette say: “Your Papa is in the kitchen with Monsieur Armand.”

He came in carrying an empty suitcase which, he informed Mariette, he intended to stuff with as much food as she could spare.

“I’m short on coupons,” he explained. “And I’m saving my money for emergencies.”

She made a great show of being disgruntled but I could tell that she adored him.

Elio ignored me and addressed his father.

“Can I talk to you alone for a moment?”

Samuel shot me a glance and I made my way out of the room, taking my plate and glass with me.

I was smoking a cigarette in the courtyard when he came out the front door with his bulging suitcase.

“I’m glad you came,” I said.

“Why, I thought you couldn’t wait for me to get out of your way.”

He was tense but his eyes were sad. I wanted to hug him, to hold him in my arms and feel the vibrations of his nervous energy.

“I’m going to miss you,” I murmured.

Elio looked me in the eye, assessing the veracity of my statement.

“I will miss you too,” he conceded. “More than you can tell. Whatever imaginary version of me you have fabricated, that’s not who I am.”

“And who are you, Elio Perlman?”

His gaze engaged mine with an intensity that almost scared me.

“It’s for you to find out,” he husked, “If you are interested.”

Despite my sense of guilt and my denials, I was more than interested.

“What do you propose we do?” I enquired.

“Think about it while I am gone,” he said. He shoved a hand in his pocket and fished out a key which he handed to me. “When I come back, you’ll either take me to the room or we’ll forget about this conversation and about last night. If you do commit, I don’t want you to back out again: no regrets or recriminations.”

I closed my fingers around the key and nodded my head.

“You have a deal,” I replied.

He squeezed my arm. “Take care of yourself and look after Papa,” he said, and carried the suitcase to his borrowed van.

***

Jacob ran down the stairs and almost took a tumble when one of his socked feet caught on a splinter. He fell into my arms with a delighted squeal.

“Careful,” I said, but he was hugging me so tightly I could hardly draw breath. His brother was frowning at us, sensing that something unpleasant was about to take place. He was an intuitive kid and I hated to think what he would be thinking of me once he was old enough to fully comprehend the extent of my deception.

“Are you going to Paris?” he asked.

“No, not that far,” I replied. “And I will return as soon as I can.”

He pouted.

“You say that,” he said.

Jacob looked up at me with questioning eyes.

“Why?” he murmured.

“I have to work,” I explained, “I fix houses, the same way as you do your toy soldiers.”

“Can we come with you?”

“I wish you could, but it’s best for you to be here in case---” I couldn’t say it.

“In case our parents return,” Julien interjected.

I nodded, unable to meet his gaze.

“Monsieur Armand will come and see you,” I said, cowardly changing the subject. “He’s very good at telling stories.”

“He’s huge,” cried Jacob, spreading his arms wide to indicate Olivier’s size. “He could carry me and Julien on his back.”

I bet he could, I agreed - and for no reason at all - blushed.

Unlike some of my past lovers who had wives or girlfriends, I’d only ever liked men.

There had never been a time when I’d been stuck in limbo, trying to make sense of the stirrings in my blood. I was thirteen when I bumped into one of my father’s students in the corridor of our Parisian apartment: a tall, broad-shouldered boy of nineteen or twenty, who had treated me with the deference due to the Professor’s son; all he saw was an ungainly child; what I did see was the epitome of unattainable perfection. I had contrived to meet him again and in those few occasions, I’d tried to show him that I wasn’t as callow as I looked. I talked and talked but it went nowhere; and how could it, since I didn’t say the words that really mattered?

In time, I’d learned to decrypt the signs of attraction and I’d never been coy. I could stand being rejected but I couldn’t bear to play games or to not seize the day.

That’s what I had done with Olivier: grasped my chance with both hands.

He was interested but not enough to forget to whom he belonged and that man wasn’t me.

I got rid of Olivier with such rudeness that my father chastised me for it.

“You didn’t have to be so discourteous,” he said, as I sat down to talk to him.

“He didn’t mind,” I replied. “He’s little more than a servant here.”

Papa shot me a stern look.

“That’s not like you to be so haughty,” he remarked. “Has he done anything to upset you?”

“Maybe he should have left when he was supposed to,” I murmured.

“I like having him here,” he said, in that way he had that brooked no dissent.

“Fine,” I sighed. “Let’s not talk about him. I will be gone for a while and I hope nothing happens while I am away. I have instructed a friend of mine to keep an eye on the situation. His name is Octave and Olivier knows him too.”

His face was creased with worry.

“Are you really going to work at the monastery?” he enquired.

“Yes, but that’s not me I’m worried about,” I replied. “It’s the way things are moving. The recent victories of the Allied forces can only spell disaster for the Vichy government.”

“You believe they’ll come sniffing around here.”

“Not yet, but as soon as the barriers are down, they’ll spread like the plague.”

He adjusted his glasses and said, quietly, “Perhaps you are right about Olivier: he shouldn’t stay here.”

“You said you enjoy his presence,” I argued, unbothered by having contradicted myself so soon.

He looked at me, a strange little smile on his lips.

“Say goodbye to him before you leave,” he said.

I hugged him and went to find Mariette.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Oliver couldn't possibly give in so easily or he'd be forever regretting it....


	13. Absence

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Oliver, while Elio is away...
> 
> Oliver's POV

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Borowski is Peter's friend and colleague

September came and with it longer, cooler nights. The days were still fiercely hot but the morning mists held the promise of autumnal mellowness. Snatches of Keats and Wordsworth came back to me while I worked in the fields or in the orchard, but they too seemed remote, rhymes without reason.

I’d picked the peaches and Mariette was busy making jam: the honeyed fragrance of caramelised sugar and burnt spices pervaded the kitchen and the backyard.

She had informed me that most of the apples and grapes were to be sold, but that Elio usually kept some back for consumption and bartering.

Samuel was aware of what was going on but he pretended otherwise.

One evening, over a dinner of herb omelette and roasted tomatoes, I asked him why.

“The people of Lavaurette know very little about me,” he explained. “I’m the stubborn old man who refuses to leave: that’s all they have been told, as far as I’m aware.”

“For your own safety, I assume.”

“It’s a worthless precaution, but it makes him feel better and I’m not averse to seclusion.”

I reflected on his words.

“I was under the impression that Elio wanted you to take a more active role and that you had refused.”

He laughed, genuine mirth lighting up his eyes.

“That’s my boy for you,” he replied. “A walking contradiction, if ever there was one. You better get used to it, my friend.”

It suddenly dawned on me that Elio had treated me in a similar manner, both wanting me to help and wishing me gone. Samuel observed me and nodded.

“He does that because he cares but can’t bear to let you see it.”

“I understand that only too well.”

The Professor drank his wine and poured some more into my empty glass.

“You and Elio have a nice friendship,” he said.

My heart gave a thump and I fiddled with the food on my plate in order to disguise my incipient panic.

“I’m not sure you can call it that,” I argued. “He’s got his own life to lead.”

He hummed and shot a pointed glance at my left hand, which was devoid of rings. The blush that coloured my face was part embarrassment and part annoyance. In England, I thought with a degree of pride, it wasn’t appropriate to poke one’s nose into people’s affairs nor was it considered acceptable to discuss feelings when eating one’s supper. But you are little more than a servant - I chided myself - remembering Elio’s comment when he’d seen me wearing borrowed clothes.

“I’m not married,” I said, coldly. “I’m only twenty-eight and there is a war.”

“I hope I haven’t been too inquisitive,” he replied, with bonhomie, “It’s only that you remind me a great deal of Paul. He was a student of mine: he used to come to the house when Elio was fourteen--- no, he was thirteen. They became friends despite the fact that Paul was a few years older, and at that age it matters more than it would now.”

My throat was tight and painful.

“Why do I remind you of him?” I asked.

“He was big and blond,” he replied, “I’m not sure Elio realised how much Paul enjoyed his company.”

“And Paul?”

“He was more guarded, but that was only fair considering the circumstances.”

I felt the stab of an unpleasant emotion, which might have been jealousy.

“And you didn’t mind?” I marvelled, sounding as prim as a Victorian spinster.

Samuel tilted his head to the side.

“I worried, yes, but not for the reason you’re alluding to.”

“I wasn’t, well, yes, maybe I was,” I conceded.

“That’s normal,” he said. “But what concerned me was that Elio might be shamed into believing he was doing something wrong.”

“You could have talked to him,” I suggested.

“He would have denied everything,” Perlman said. “And he wouldn’t have forgiven me.”

If I wanted to repudiate my similarity to Paul, that was the time. Speak now or forever hold your peace.

“I have a girlfriend back home,” I started, “She’s a nurse.”

“Elio has a fiancée in Paris.”

I gritted my teeth. “You are making things very difficult for me.”

He shook his head. “On the contrary, I’m trying to save you the trouble of lying to me.”

Had I been Jacob’s age, I would have burst into tears and stamped my feet.

“I don’t see why my private life should be a topic of discussion,” I replied, wishing I could have said that in the waspish tones of my mother tongue.

Samuel’s gaze softened. “My apologies for being nosy,” he murmured. “I can only blame it on my solitude. I’m turning into a savage.”

Perversely, now that he’d retreated, I wished to surrender.

“Your assumptions aren’t wrong,” I said, looking at the tablecloth. “But I’m not entirely free to do as I please.”

“No one is,” he stated. “One more thing: treat yourself with kindness, my boy. Don’t be your own worst enemy.”

“You are very wise.”

He chuckled. “Only when other people are concerned,” he said.

That night I tossed and turned and couldn’t go to sleep. I finally got out of bed and went to smoke a cigarette by the open window. In London, that would have been against the blackout regulations, so I took great satisfaction in exhaling plumes of smoke into the balmy night.

My conversation with Samuel had brought back memories of my parents, my mother and my stepfather to be precise. He had died six months after the war had started and she had taken off to the States to be among “her people”. The fact that she had abandoned her country when it had suited her was irrelevant: she belonged there by blood, she’d declared, and had never renounced her citizenship. I had aunts, uncles, cousins and dozens of relatives on my stepfather’s side, which was a surfeit of family, according to her, thus negating my need for her presence in London.

I could not have talked of my personal life with her: it would have been like discussing philosophy with a peacock. She took no interest in the workings of my mind and was glad of my presence as long it didn’t interfere with her plans.

The psychologist who had examined me prior to my mission had asked whether I resented her behaviour: I didn’t. She was fun to be around and she never mistreated me, but I'd known from a very early age that I couldn’t count on her.

“Why did you take me with you to France?” I’d asked her when I was old enough to understand.

To her credit, she'd been honest. “It would have looked bad, a mother abandoning her son,” she’d replied.

I had been luckier with the strangers she had chosen to be my father figures: they had loved me more than my own mother.

I fished the room key out of the drawer where I’d placed it and held it in the palm of my hand. I needed to go back there and imagine what it would be like to be on that bed, naked, with another man. It was a silly notion but once I’d entertained it, I couldn’t dismiss it.

The difficulty lay in locating the room: when Elio had shown it to me, I’d been too busy worrying about what was going to happen to care about directions.

Two mistaken turns and one secluded bathroom later, I came across it when I’d almost given up.

I switched on the single light bulb that dangled from the ceiling and heard Elio’s voice as he had spoken to me the night he’s spied on me.

_Close your eyes_

I sat on the bed, appreciating the firmness of the mattress.

There was a coating of dust on the dresser and on the night-stand, but the air didn’t stink of mould like it would have back in England. I opened the window all the same and returned to the bed, stretching across the length of it. I rolled to the side and shut my eyes. I recalled the memory of Elio’s mouth on my skin, of his teeth and his tongue, of the flavour of his semen: I was hard in no time.

Was it him or was it the thrill of the new? I didn’t have an answer yet, but as I shoved my hand down my underpants, the name on my lips wasn’t that of my lost lover.

“He’s getting bolder,” Madame Darel informed me, referring to Benech. “I’ve been told that he’s proposing of compiling a list of the children not returning to school and pass it on to the gendarmes for further investigation.”

We were drinking lemon tea in the sitting room while the children were shut inside the study: Julien was practising the piano and his brother was sitting under it with a colouring book.

“Is it part of his duties?”

“I doubt it,” she replied. “You see, he’s one of those grey men no one pays attention to and now he’s found a way to be noticed.”

It sickened me that people like Benech existed and that they were bound to thrive in the dystopian society we’d created.

“Do you think he knows about them?”

“According to Elio, the children have been accounted for,” she said. “They were on that train with their parents.”

“He must suspect something or he wouldn’t hang around your house.”

“Oh no, he’s no longer prying,” she exclaimed. “And that worries me even more.”

I didn’t know what to say, so I asked her about Elio. Unlike us at Le Domaine, she had a telephone.

“Calls can be intercepted,” she replied. “We have to be careful.”

Two weeks after his departure, there was still no sign of Elio’s return. I kept busy and my latest endeavour was the mending and painting of the shed.

One afternoon, I was cycling back from Lavaurette – where I’d gone to purchase a tin of paint – when, at a junction, a figure jumped out from being the trees and barred my way. I couldn’t believe my eyes.

“Yves,” I cried, “What are you doing here?”

I had spoken in French but he replied to me in English.

“Shut up and come with me.”

He led me to an empty barn that smelled of dung and hay.

“Why aren’t you back in England?” I enquired, once we were inside, bike and all.

“Why do you think?” he bit back, looking furious. I’d always seen him calm even in the most arduous circumstances and I was taken aback by his wrath.

I said nothing and he went on. “You were supposed to complete your mission and return to London. I gather that you had some ulterior motive to be here, but you’ve been given plenty of rope already. What the hell, Armand?”

“I’m not going back,” I said, “I have a perfectly good cover and I can be more useful here than behind a desk at the Ministry.”

“You should have cleared it with London,” he argued, but his fury had abated a little. “They know that you took part in that train derailment, so don’t bother to deny it.”

“I wasn’t going to,” I said, “I’m proud of what I did.”

He sighed noisily.

“I did go but they sent me back to check on you,” he explained. “You weren’t properly trained.”

“You are not the first to say that.”

“Won’t be the last,” he quipped. “Listen, I don’t want to keep you and we shouldn’t be seen together, but I’ve heard from Borowski,” he looked at me and I nodded my head to confirm that I knew the man in question. “He’s certain that Lieutenant Gregory is still alive. He couldn’t divulge his sources but he was positive that they could be trusted.”

“Where,” I asked, relieved and happy.

“Some place near the Spanish border,” he replied. “I was instructed to tell you not to try and find him there. If it’s true and he’s alive, he’s under cover: any wrong move could be fatal.”

I promised Yves I’d do as told as long as I was kept informed of any new development.

“Try to stay out of trouble,” he said, as he shook my hand before going his own way. He didn’t wait for my reply.

The weather broke towards the end of September: low menacing clouds swept the sky and warm, fat raindrops pelted down on me as I ran inside the shed. The smell of wet earth was delicious and overpowering.

I heard the distant roar of thunder and waited for the inevitable storm to play itself out. A few minutes later, I heard swearing and the noise of hurried footsteps.

The door was wrenched open and Elio rushed in, a scowl on his face and his curls sodden and dripping.

“Bloody rain,” he said.

We looked at each other and burst into laughter.


	14. Closer

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Elio and Oliver finally talk and...
> 
> Elio's POV/Oliver's POV

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I promise that the next chapter is on its way....

I had spent twenty-seven days in hell.

It was nearly impossible to find able-bodied men trained for working on a construction site; bribery was a common occurrence and having to pay off those who collaborated with the enemy sickened me to the core.

I had lost weight and sleep: my worries were both of the general sort – the certainty that the Free Zone was a handful of weeks away from being occupied – and the more personal one – fear for the kids, for my father, and for Olivier.

I had convinced myself that Olivier wouldn’t be there when I returned, that he’d gone in search of Peter and that I’d not see him again.

One morning I’d woken up in a cold sweat, a sense of foreboding and doom weighing upon my heart. That evening, I’d contacted Octave, who had reassured me that all was well: the paintings were safe and the gendarmes had not made any arrests. He hadn’t heard anything about Olivier, so he’d assumed everything was alright. I had resisted the temptation of telephoning Madame Darel, fearing that her communications might be intercepted.

In the end, we’d run out of supplies and money, but we’d done the best with what we had.

I had driven straight to Le Domaine, impatient to see Olivier.

Mariette had come to the door, grousing that I was bringing in the rain. Her eyes told me that she was happy to see me even as she feigned annoyance.

“I’ll tell Monsieur Perlman that you are here,” she said.

“What about Monsieur Armand, is he still with us?”

Her smile – rare as it was on her lips – almost knocked me out.

“Oh yes, he’s made such a difference here,” she exclaimed.

Has he really, I thought, with a touch of pride and a sprinkle of envy that she's been here to enjoy his presence while I'd been far away.

“Is he with Papa now?”

“No, he was mending the shed,” she replied. “He must still be there.”

“Don’t disturb Papa,” I said, and headed out, ignoring Mariette’s loud protests.

I tried not to stare at Olivier, but it was a losing battle: he had lost weight too, but he had gained muscle, and with that a golden tan; his hair was longer and had been bleached by the sun. Next to him, I must look like a scarecrow: pale, scrawny and hollow-eyed.

I watched as he shook out a blanket and wrapped it around my shoulders.

“The tip of your nose is all red,” he remarked, touching it with a fingertip.

I sniffed and was about to reply when he covered my head with a cloth of some sort. “For your hair,” he said, “Shall I rub it for you?”

“Well, if you insist,” I replied, gazing at him to see whether he’d caught the innuendo.

“Very funny,” he rolled his eyes and took a step back.

Inside the shed, there were a number of wooden crates that we used for storing jam and other tinned goods. Olivier sat on one of them, and after I was done drying my hair, I joined him.

“You look tired,” he said. “And you are wasting away.”

“It wasn’t fun, if that’s what you mean.”

I was already on the defensive but I couldn’t help it.

“I only meant that you need to rest and recuperate,” he argued. “Mariette will spoil you.”

“And you, what are you going to do?” I asked, looking into his eyes.

He was taken aback, but he held my gaze.

“I met Yves,” he said, clearing his throat. “Remember him?”

I nodded, fearing what was coming next.

“He was rather upset, as you can imagine.” He waited for my comment but none came, so he went on with his story. “He thinks that Peter is still alive.”

My heart was like a lump of clay in my chest.

“You are leaving then,” I said.

“He warned me against doing anything rash. Peter is probably undercover and I’d only endanger his life.”

“Back to London,” I suggested.

“What would be the point,” he replied. “They’d have me dealing with paperwork again and I would lose my mind. No, I’ll stay here and help you out, like I said I would.”

I glared at him. “You came here to find Peter and now you know he’s alive: mission accomplished. If he manages to get back to England only to find out you are still here, won’t he come and rescue you?”

It was clear that he hadn’t thought about this eventuality.

“Maybe, but I’m not going anyway,” he said, clenching his jaw. “I want to make sure you and your father are safe.”

“We are never going to be safe,” I replied, with quiet rage. “They’ll catch us and send us to a camp, same as they did with Jacob and Julien’s parents. It’s only a matter of time.”

Olivier’s lips were trembling when he spoke.

“I won’t let it happen,” he said, “There must be a way and we’ll find it, together.”

Suddenly, I felt exhausted and tearful. Better put me out of my misery, I thought.

“Have you come to a decision about the room?” I murmured.

He was silent for a long while, and I let him take his time.

“You told me something once, about men assuming things about you,” he finally said. “It’s been the same for me. There are things I’ve wanted and was never allowed--- well, not without asking and even when I asked---”

He flushed and I badly wanted to kiss him.

“You can do what you want with me,” I whispered.

We looked at each other and I felt like I was being mesmerized. In order to break the spell, I touched his upper lip, “You shaved it off,” I said, stupidly.

He grinned. “You told me to.”

“And you always do what you are told?”

“That’s for you to find out,” he quipped.

I traced the outline of his mouth with my thumb.

“No regrets or recriminations,” I said. “That was my only condition.”

“Fine,” he whispered. “And I ask that you hide nothing from me, when we are in there. I’ve had enough of polite restraint.”

I chuckled. “No risk of that with me.”

He laughed and this time I couldn’t resist: I kissed the dimple on his cheek.

“Wait,” he said, smiling. “It’s time for you to know that my real name is Oliver.”

“You didn’t change it!”

“I changed it a little bit,” he replied, sheepishly.

“They did a terrible job, your people in London.”

He pinched my arm. “They got me here, so you shouldn’t complain.”

I decided I should take advantage of our proximity and rested my head on his shoulder.

“You should go to bed,” he said. “To sleep, I mean.”

“I intend to,” I replied, “I’ll go to Lavaurette, but I’ll come back and have dinner with you and Papa. And after that---”

“We could wait, if you need to rest.”

I tilted my head so that my lips were pressed to his neck.

“I need you,” I whispered.

***

The storm had passed and the air was fresh and pure.

I was too dazed to go back to work and I didn’t wish to disturb Elio’s reunion with his father so I opted for a walk in the fields.

I had missed him but I hadn’t quite realised how much until I’d heard his voice again.

He looked as if he were at breaking point: fragile, tense and underfed. I had been worrying about my conscience, the inevitable guilt that follows every betrayal, but in his presence, my only instinct had been to get closer to him.

And yet there were other matters that bothered me; that I had barely considered but that grew in importance as the night approached. I’d had very limited carnal knowledge of men: what if Elio found me wanting? His palate might be too refined for what I had to offer: would he be patient and wait or would he tire and look elsewhere? For all I knew, he might have done that already while he’d been away; in his line of business, the type of men he liked – strong, muscular – were easy to find; among them, there must have been some who were seduced by Elio’s singular beauty.

I had reached the olive grove and sat on the stump of a tree. From there I could see Le Domaine and I gazed at it with affection; it was already like a home to me and when the moment came to leave it, I would certainly suffer.

One day, the enemy might wish to disembowel it, burn it, raze it to the ground, and there was little we could do to stop them.

“That hotel will never see the light of day,” Elio was telling Samuel.

I was tuning in and out of their conversation while paying undue attention to the casserole of hare and root vegetables that we were having for dinner.

At times, I felt Elio’s eyes on me; once or twice, our gazed had locked and I’d wondered why he was different from the other men I’d been attracted to.

Samuel was beaming at his son, glad to have him back in one piece, and Mariette had baked an apple tart as well as the delicious bread Elio was devouring.

“You have done your best,” the Professor replied before addressing me, “What do you think?”

I swallowed my mouthful of food and licked my lips.

“Life must go on,” I agreed. “We can’t give up and let them win.”

Elio groaned. “I never said I’d intend to,” he muttered. “But I resent the cruelty of feeding beauty to the beast.”

“What is your opinion of Albert Speer?” I asked, referring to the famous Nazi architect and Hitler’s protégé.

Samuel’s eyebrows shot up and I guessed I must have hit a nerve.

Elio’s face seemed to harden and sharpen, like a dangerous weapon.

“Horrid, pompous mediocrity,” he hissed. “He only cares about size in order to match the ego of that monster he’s working for, no doubt.”

“It must be hard to say no when you are given the chance to make your dreams come true,” I went on, conscious of Samuel’s amused expression as he served himself another portion of stew.

“On the contrary,” Elio argued, coldly. “I’d find it extremely easy. If Laval came to me and gave me carte blanche to build a monument in celebration of his friendship with the Germans, I wouldn’t hesitate to turn him down.”

“And put your life at risk?”

“That’s blackmail,” he hissed. “What sort of person would respond positively to that?”

“One that wishes to survive,” I bit back.

“Survive without honour and self-respect.”

“But with your flesh still attached to your bones.”

We had both raised our voices and Mariette had rushed in to see whether it was to do with her cooking. Satisfied that it wasn’t, she’d retreated back to the kitchen.

Samuel gave me a pat on the back and smiled. “Welcome to the family,” he said.

Elio frowned but when he looked at me, I could tell that he was pleased.

We had not agreed on a specific time and when I got there, the room was empty.

I wondered whether Elio had changed his mind, until I noticed a few objects that had not been there before: a Tiffany lamp, a bottle of brandy and two glasses on the bedside table; a pitcher of water and a folded towel on the dresser.

I switched off the main light and turned on the bedside lamp instead: the muted warm glow had a soothing effect on my nerves. I had not drunk wine at dinner but I poured an inch of liquor in a glass and knocked it back just as Elio appeared on the threshold.

“I’ll have one too,” he said, and as he did, I stared at him. He was wearing a green pyjama jacket and a pair of burgundy boxer shorts and his hair was the usual mess of curls. He seemed both soft and unapproachable and I didn’t know where to start, so I went for another measure of brandy.

“We don’t have to do anything,” Elio said, wiping his mouth on the sleeve of his top. “I only want to be close to you.”

The heat in my stomach spread up and down, tightening my throat and my balls.

“Lie down with me,” he murmured, and he pulled me down on to the bed, arranging his body so that it was slotted against the side of mine. “Tell me what you like,” he purred.


	15. Spell

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> This is when the story starts to earn its E rating.
> 
> And it won't ever stop, lolz
> 
> Elio's POV/Oliver's POV

He’d tensed up: I said the wrong thing, obviously. I had gone too long without truly caring about the person sharing my bed.

“I didn’t mean to put you on the spot,” I said, stroking the length of his jaw. It clenched beneath my fingers.

“It’s been a while,” I admitted.

He looked into my eyes with curiosity. “Not while you were away?”

“What, no, certainly not,” I exclaimed. “I was busy running around and doing my best to keep it together. And besides, I thought of you whenever I had a moment to spare.”

“You didn’t,” he argued, smiling.

I caressed his neck and pressed the pad of my thumb into the hollow at the base his throat.

“You know I did,” I murmured, leaning close enough to smell the brandy on his breath. I kissed his cheek while my hand slid inside his pyjama jacket.

“What did you think about,” he asked, and his voice was lower, coarser.

I spoke into his ear. “The night I saw you, the way these hardened for me,” I said, as the palm of my hand skimmed his nipple: it was pebbled already, aching to be touched.

“Just tell me that you want this,” I croaked, my breath coming in pants as though I’d been running. I hadn’t desired someone so intensely since I’d been a kid, and that had been more daydream than reality.

“Please,” he moaned, as his hand cupped the back of my head and guided it down to where he needed it.

I remembered the taste of him and as soon as my tongue was on his flesh, I groaned at the pleasure of it. His fingers were digging into my scalp, but I had no intention of letting go: I licked, sucked and dotted his chest with bruises, unaware that his wiry hair was chafing my skin.

I looked at him and caught him staring, his lips wet with spit and marked by the imprint of his teeth.

“Oliver,” I whispered, calling him by his name for the first time.

“Elio,” he replied, frowning, as if he couldn’t trust his own wits.

He hauled me up and buried his face in my throat. I hoped he wasn’t having a change of mind; that he hadn’t suddenly decided that no, he didn’t want me after all. I’d have died on the spot if he rejected me then. He was aroused - I had proof of it against my thigh – but that meant nothing if his heart wasn’t in it. I wanted all of him, at least while we were inside our room. Outside: that was a different matter; I knew for a fact that I’d lose him one way or the other, but I wanted to have him first; have all of him, every which way he allowed me to.

“I love your eyes,” he said, unexpectedly.

“Yours are not bad either,” I replied, waiting for the other shoe to drop.

He drew back a little so that he could meet my gaze. He was no longer frowning, but he was unsure about something.

“You can tell me,” I said, “Anything, everything, all and nothing.”

Oliver’s lips were parted and I couldn’t resist sliding a finger between them.

His tongue flicked at the underside of it and my prick twitched in response.

“It was like being seen for the first time,” he replied, once he’d released my wet finger after sucking its tip. I didn’t catch his words at first, hypnotised as I was by the sensousness of his mouth.

“How do you mean?” I asked, repressing the impulse to jump him and be done with it.

“No one’s ever looked at me like you did,” he explained. He was flushed and embarrassed but still went on speaking. “Like you wanted to know my desires, _really_ know them as they are and not as a conduit to yours.”

A sudden surge of emotion choked me; I didn’t know where it came from or what to do with it, so I simply let it wash over me, as Oliver wrapped me in his arms.

I was shaking with tearless sobs, weeks or maybe months of tension and fear coming to a head.

He comforted me, pressing his lips to my hair and my forehead, rubbing my shoulders and my back.

When the crisis subsided, I tried to laugh it off.

“You came for sex and I gave you drama,” I joked.

Oliver touched the livid skin underneath my eyes.

“You didn’t sleep before dinner,” he said. “You’ll sleep now.”

I scowled. “I’m not taking orders from you.”

“It’s not an order,” he replied, “Only a wish.”

“Will you go back to your room?”

He smiled and shook his head. “I’m not going anywhere.”

I woke up half-sprawled on top of Oliver and in need of a piss. He was fast asleep so I tiptoed out of the room then sprinted to the toilet at the end of the corridor.

I wanted to run back to him: the night wasn’t over yet and I intended to get him naked at the very least.

“I thought you’d left,” he said when I entered the room. He was lying on his back and he’d kicked away the covers. He was in his boxer shorts and the top of his pyjama was unbuttoned.

I remembered what he’d said about my eyes and looked at him openly, unashamedly.

I climbed on the bed, but instead of straddling him, I kneeled by his side.

“I won’t leave you unless you ask me to,” I said.

He took my hand in his and brought it to his lips. I expected a kiss, but Oliver licked it instead; first the palm and then each finger, slowly.

He let go in order to remove his underpants. I blinked as his length sprang up and bounced against his lower belly: it was fatter than I remembered and oozing at the tip. A moment later, I removed my shorts, single-handedly and under his fixed stare: it made me harder than I’d ever been.

“You are so beautiful,” I whispered, as my wet fingers closed around his cock and tugged. “Look at you,” I said, breathless with lust. “Look at us.”

I wanted to touch him everywhere at once: I caressed his stomach, his arms, his thighs, but was finally sidetracked by the softness of his hair as I sifted through it. Oliver was trembling - his body was slick with sweat - and his eyes never left me, darting from my face to my hand, as it sped up and down his cock.

“God, oh god, yes, again, Christ,” he begged, as I sucked at the head. I was about to go down on his shaft when he yanked at my hair. “No, I’m going to, no, no,” but I pinned his hips and kept him still as I swallowed his release.

Afterwards, it was a bit of a blur: I threw myself on him and came on his stomach after a few rough, vicious pulls, my hand guiding his, showing him how I liked it.

“This is what you do to me,” I cried, as he watched me come undone.

***

“We haven’t kissed yet,” I said, stroking Elio’s tousled curls.

“I’m too good at kissing,” he replied, mouthing at my collarbone. “You won’t be able to stop once you start.”

“That’s quite a boast.”

“It’s not a boast if it’s true.”

I laughed and he sank his teeth into my shoulder. We mock-wrestled or rather I pretended that he stood a chance to overpower me until he gave up and slumped back into my arms. He was quiet for a moment, but I could tell that he was thinking rather than resting.

“I had this dream one night, while I was away,” he murmured, after a while. “That I was in danger and that you came to save me. I couldn’t see what the trouble was but I sensed your fear; I could almost smell it on you. I had to make it go away so I kissed you. It was as if my blood was singing and the feeling lasted even after I woke up and for the rest of the day.”

“And now you don’t want to kiss me in case I don’t measure up,” I concluded.

“No, that’s not,” he hesitated. “It’s like a spell that I’m afraid to break.”

He looked up at me, wide-eyed and boyish, irresistible.

“Do you think it’s stupid? You think it’s stupid,” he said, chewing on his lips.

“No, just,” I thought of the least offensive reply. “I didn’t imagine you’d be superstitious.”

“I’m not, usually,” he said. He was sulking, with the most endearing pout on his delicious lips.

“I’ll have to find another peach,” I said, enjoying his puzzled reaction.

“What peach,” he asked, a vertical line forming between his eyebrows.

“I’m not gonna tell you,” I grinned.

He addressed an imaginary audience. “He’s not gonna tell me,” he said, as he launched a tickling assault on my ribs and sides.

It was dawn when we returned to our respective rooms and I fell asleep as soon as I got into bed. It was Sunday, the day when Mariette went to church and we cooked our own breakfast.

The weather had fully recovered from the previous day’s storm: the sky was cloudless and it was as hot as high summer.

I was making my way downstairs when I heard the noise of a car engine being started: Elio was leaving.

It didn’t come as a surprise, but it hurt all the same. He had things to do; his life didn’t revolve around me: I was well aware of that. I was the one who had mixed allegiances and another man waiting for me; yet I was also the one who felt betrayed. It was unfair on Elio, who had been generous and honest to a fault.

I put on a brave face and walked into the dining room.

“Good morning,” Samuel greeted me with a beaming smile. “Elio had to return the van. He should have done it yesterday but he forgot. He asked me to apologize on his behalf.”

“No need,” I replied, smiling back at him. “Lovely day isn’t it.”

“Dazzling,” he agreed, “Too lovely to stay inside. What do you say to a bike ride after breakfast?”

I agreed that it was a splendid idea and hastened to eat my soft-boiled eggs and drink my coffee.

Samuel had turned out to be more athletic than I’d anticipated and we’d spent a couple of hours cycling around the country side, not dawdling and chatting like I’d thought, but speeding like maniacs and – once – barely avoiding a collision with a placidly indifferent cow.

“You are a madman,” I exclaimed, as I jumped off my bike and leaned it against the shed. “And I thought you’d be the cautious sort.”

He laughed. “You see me as an old man, that’s why.”

“Not old, but mature and wise,” I argued.

“You overestimate me,” he replied, winking. “I may be a philosopher but so are you. Would you call yourself wise?”

I chuckled. “That’s the last thing I’d call myself.”

“In time, you’ll learn to mistrust wisdom.”

“Why is that?”

He patted my back. “Because it’s often another name for senility,” he quipped.

After lunch – which consisted of ham, cornichons and cheese – he showed me photos of Elio’s mother: she’d been a dark-haired beauty, with large soulful eyes and creamy skin; Elio could have been her twin.

“She was in love with Italy,” he said. “When she was a child, her parents used to rent a house in a little town called Crema. Elio was her best friend; he died of measles the summer he turned seven.”

“She wasn’t superstitious.”

Samuel gazed at her face, a fond, sad smile on his lips. “Not in the least,” he replied.

It was midnight and I couldn’t go to sleep.

Elio had not come back and I was starting to think I’d imagined what had happened between us.

I had no logic reason to go there, aside from searching for traces of our presence. We had tidied up before leaving but we had not changed the sheets and they surely must have retained the imprints of our love-making.

When I opened the door, I saw the orange glow of the Tiffany light. Elio was sitting on the bed, staring into nothingness.

“Why didn’t you say,” I started.

He flew up into my arms, trying his best to climb me.

“It was stupid,” he exclaimed, pressing his lips to mine.

“What about the spell,” I joked.

“Damn the spell,” he laughed, as I gathered him up and threw him on the bed.


	16. Midnight

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Here we are: a chapter entirely devoted to smut and fluff.
> 
> But we also get to know a little bit more about Oliver, things that will pop up again later on...
> 
> Elio's POV/Oliver's POV

“I’d better shave, next time,” Oliver said, scratching his chin.

My lips felt twice their usual size and the skin around them was sore and itchy, but I didn’t care. I nosed at the underside of his jaw and breathed him in.

“I don’t mind,” I replied, nibbling his earlobe.

He emitted a throaty sound, between a laugh and a moan, and buried a hand into my curls, combing through them and grazing my scalp, softly.

“People will notice,” he remarked. “They will start asking questions.”

I licked the whorls of his ear, and he shivered.

“Bloody nuisance,” I muttered, and his amused chuckle made me smile.

We had kissed and kissed, hard and demanding at first: my tongue in his mouth, teeth scraping his lower lip, both my hands on his face, my body pinning him to the mattress. He had let me, and the wild darkness in his eyes fuelled my desire to give him everything he needed, to refuse him nothing. Had he taken my last breath, I wouldn’t have held back.

We didn’t speak; I didn’t ask him whether it was good for him or shower him with praises; I wanted to learn him by the silent congress of our senses, because it was what he needed from me. I could not give him a future but I could gift him my undivided attention.

He had taken the lead after we’d come up for air, and had stroked my throat, drawing circles on it with his thumb then with his tongue. When he took my mouth, the kiss was slow and hypnotic; it went deep and left me feeling dazed and raw.

I desperately wanted to know if he’d kissed Peter that way too yet at the same time never wished to hear about him again. Maybe I was only doing him a favour: like the whores who used to initiate boys to the pleasure of sex, I was liberating Oliver from his constraints; like those whores, I wouldn’t be the one enjoying the results of my efforts. It was a cynical point of view but the alternative was too painful to contemplate. I wouldn’t go near it or stare it straight in the eye: I didn’t have the courage.

“You were right,” he murmured, after a while. “About being a good kisser.”

“I did warn you,” I joked. “And now you won’t be able to stop.”

“Who says I want to,” he said.

He was lying on his back and I tangled my legs with his and rested my head on his chest. His arms encircled me and I’d never felt as safe. The arousal that had maddened me during our kiss had simmered down and I could appreciate his nearness without asking for more.

“Your dad showed me a photograph of your mother,” he said, resuming the hair-stroking. “I hope you don’t mind.”

I didn’t but that told me that Papa had already understood more than I was comfortable with.

“Why should I mind,” I replied, with a touch of coldness, “One more person to remember her once we are gone. I don’t want her to be forgotten.”

Oliver’s heart thumped against his ribcage.

“Please don’t say that,” he said. “You have no idea how hurtful it is to hear you speak like this.”

“All right, I shall keep my considerations to myself.”

I sat up and stretched my arms above my head. “I should go,” I said. “Tomorrow it’s going to be a busy day for me. Masses of forms to fill in and all because those Vichy pen-pushers have to show their masters what dutiful servants they are. I despise their boot-licking meekness and---”

I couldn’t go on because Oliver had pulled me back down and rolled on top of me.

“You promised,” he hissed. “Inside this room, you said, we should be honest with each other. No lies, no regrets and no recriminations. What have I done wrong? Did you dislike the kiss, because I know I’m out of practice and---”

I hated that I’d caused him to doubt himself.

“You did nothing wrong,” I said, caressing his cheek. “I didn’t mean to hurt you.”

He kissed the tip of my nose and I shut my eyes to hold back the tears.

“What is it; what did I say? Perhaps I shouldn’t have mentioned your mother.”

I shook my head. “It’s not that,” I murmured. “It’s just that I am not used to being so close to my--- to the men I sleep with. I don’t usually do that.”

“Talk about your past?”

“Talking doesn’t happen much at all,” I replied, meeting his gaze.

“You never lived with any of them?”

I shrugged. “What would be the point? It’s risky enough having sex with another man.”

Oliver smirked. “The danger alone wouldn’t have been a deterrent.”

“It makes for a good excuse though,” I argued.

He rolled off me and lay on his side, facing me.

“That was one of the things I loved best,” he said, “Preparing dinner for two, sleeping together. Maybe too mundane for you, I suppose.” He said it without malice, earnestly.

“No one would be able to stand me, in the long run.”

He smiled and reached out to tuck a stray curl behind my ear.

“I very much doubt that,” he murmured. “One wouldn’t grow bored of you.”

“I might grow bored of them.”

Without realising or wanting to, I’d hit a nerve: his gaze became distant and frostier.

“I’ve told you I was an ordinary kid,” he said. “And I’m not one for partying and dancing much. I have been found wanting on that score.”

I hesitated a second or two but, hell, I needed to know.

“Peter criticised you for that, you mean.”

Oliver looked away. “He didn’t, not really. He was only pointing out that we had different tastes.” His gaze searched for mine again, and I couldn’t tell whether he was furious or disappointed; or a bit of both, maybe.

“What?”

“He’s a pilot, he thrives on risk and unpredictability,” he replied. “The two of you would hit it off, I guess. I’m the odd one out.” His chuckle had an edge of self-mockery that I didn’t appreciate.

“Shut up,” I said, grabbing his chin between thumb and forefinger. “You came here undercover with next to no training, you’re risking your life as we speak, and you did it for him. There’s nothing ordinary about you.”

His expression softened. “I didn’t mean to be nosy,” he said. “Your father likes to talk about you and who could blame him?”

“What else has he told you?”

“My lips are sealed,” he said, with a wicked grin.

“Are they now,” I whispered. I let go of his chin and ran the pad of my thumb along the seam of his mouth. His tongue peeked out to flick at it. A flash of heat fizzled through me, settling into my groin.

Oliver had perceived what he’d done to me, so he did it again, this time sucking at the head of my finger. I shifted closer to him until I felt the warmth of his body spread to mine. My other arm was trapped underneath me so I arched my back to press my torso against his. I cursed the fabric that separated my bare skin from his flesh.

“Off, off and off,” I muttered, as I freed my hand and started fiddling with the buttons of his pyjama top. He laughed and pushed me aside. “Let me do it,” he said. “Take yours off, pants too.”

“Here you go,” I said, pulling my shorts down mid-thigh in one provocative slide.

Oliver stared at my bobbing erection and licked his lips.

***

I had wanted to do this to Elio ever since that day at his apartment, if I was honest with myself. And that was another sore spot: how long had I been lying to myself? Had it begun at boarding school or even before that? Had it started with Armand, I wondered. The story about Elio’s mother and her childhood friend had brought back memories of my own, that I was not too keen on revisiting. And yet part of me must be wishing to indulge in them, since I’d taken his first name as my last for this operation. Armand and his sister Florence, those long summer days spent in the countryside, a landscape not dissimilar to the one surrounding Le Domaine: I had never gone back, never written or tried to find out what had become of them. They could be dead, for all I knew.

Elio wasn’t like Armand, he was different from all the men I’d met. Something in him had prised me open, like a sensual _Open Sesame_. I didn’t mean to show him who I was: it simply happened, because it was him and because it was me.

“You don’t have to,” Elio murmured. I had walked over to his side of the bed, naked and achingly hard, and sank to my knees between his parted legs.

“I want to,” I replied. I hardly knew what I was saying, my mind overtaken by my senses.

I was good at sucking cock, or so I’d been told, but this felt different, almost like uncharted territory. Elio must have caught the hitch in my breathing because he buried both his hands in my hair and played with it, alternating soothing rubs with tugs that served to ground me.

I bent down and nuzzled the swell of his balls, closing my fist around the base of his sex. Elio’s hips gave a kick and his thighs opened wider.

“Fuck,” he swore, and pulled the hair at my nape. I gave him no respite, wanting him to lose control: I licked his balls with the broad of my tongue then sucked them inside my mouth, slicking them with spit.

“Look at me,” Elio hissed, and when our eyes met, my prick dribbled. My mouth and fingers were still on him, and his chest was rising and falling with every ragged pant he took. “You’re,” he said, scratching my scalp with a fingernail. “Extraordinary.”

I’d tried to keep my eyes open but when I tightened the ring of my lips around the head of Elio’s cock, I was overtaken by pleasure; as I let it invade my mouth and cause me to gag, I moaned around it, licking along its shaft. Elio was pushing into me, but not too violently, just enough to make me see stars. We soon found our perfect rhythm, and I was so far gone I had not even realised that I’d started to pull at my dick until I was right on the edge. “Fuck, I’m gonna come,” Elio shouted and I couldn’t understand how he’d read my mind, but a moment later, he was shooting his load down my throat just as mine was spraying the dusty floorboards.

“Jesus Christ,” he groaned, as he held on to me for dear life.

“It’s never happened before,” he said, passing me the fag we’d been sharing, “How about you?”

I shook my head. “I didn’t even know---” I stopped, not wanting to give away the extent of my lack of experience.

Elio’s bare foot stroked my ankle. “That it was possible,” he enquired.

“That it was something to aspire to.”

His eyebrows arched up. “Reaching orgasm at the same time _not something to aspire to_?” he mocked.

I felt my cheeks go red and warm. I thought of a repartee but none came, so I took another, longer drag.

“I’m being an idiot,” he said, brushing a lock of hair away from my face. “But for the love of fuck, what is wrong with English men that they allowed all this go to waste?”

I nearly spat the cigarette out.

“Well, I’m sorry but I feel very strongly that you should have been treated like you deserve,” he continued, “Lucky for you that you are in France now, the country of love and romance.”

“I thought that was Italy.”

He tutted and clicked his tongue.

“All those Puccini operas are mere tear-jerkers,” he scoffed. “Debussy and Chopin are the real deal.”

I placed the cigarette between his lips to shut him up.

“Chopin was Polish,” I argued.

He pretended to sulk and blew a cloud of smoke in my face. “I don’t care,” he said, in heavily-accented English.

“Say something else,” I urged him.

Elio pulled me to him and whispered in my ear, “Please let me have you, Oliver.”


	17. Armance

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> The plot starts to take shape and Elio has blue balls... not for long though
> 
> Elio's POV/Oliver's POV

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Florence Gould was in her mid-40s at that time but let's pretend she was 30 or so.

I woke up at dawn, bleary-eyed and irritated for having slept alone in my usual bedroom.

We had agreed to never spend the night in our room and I didn’t want to be the one to break the rules. Besides, when I’d spoken those words in English to him, his expression had shuttered and he’d suddenly become remote, inaccessible.

I’d pretended not to notice – hadn’t wished to make a meal of it – and had yawned theatrically.

“Time to call it a night,” I’d said, and he’d nodded his head. I’d kissed him lightly on the cheek and left.

So much for our reciprocal promise to never keep anything from each other, I thought with a pang of resentment. There was much to be done in order to break through Oliver’s English reserve and I wasn’t sure I had the patience or the inclination. Why the hell had I believed it would be a feasible proposition when we had a handful of days at our disposal? I laced up my shoes and growled when a curtain of curls dropped before my eyes; I brushed it away from my face but a few strands refused to be tamed. I needed a haircut, I thought, and immediately wondered whether Oliver would still like me with shorter hair.

“Stupid idiot,” I snarled at my reflection in the armoire mirror. As if Oliver cared one way or the other.

I was hoping to sneak out unseen, but it wasn’t to be.

“Sometimes I suspect you of owning a listening device,” I said, hearing my father’s footsteps behind me on the stairs. “How else would you catch me every single time?”

He laughed. “You are not half as stealthy as you think.”

“I don’t mean to be,” I bit back, growing more and more irritated. “This is my home too, after all. Or isn’t it?”

“What are you really asking me, Elli?”

I waited for him at the bottom of the staircase.

“Alright, if you want to know,” I replied, keeping my voice low, “I’m not exactly thrilled that you are confiding personal matters to Olivier. He’s a stranger, after all. We are not close friends, him and I, and yet you told him about Maman, and god knows what else.”

I heard Mariette pottering in the kitchen but no noise coming from upstairs.

Papa gazed at me with affection.

“He likes you and you like him,” he said, with a shrug. “But I’ll keep my big mouth shut if that’s what you prefer.”

“Yes, please,” I replied, frowning. “What else have you divulged?”

“I only remarked that he reminded me of Paul.”

I felt my cheeks flush. “Paul tolerated me because he was one of your students. Are you saying that Olivier is behaving the same way?”

He sighed and looked me in the eye. “For a clever young man you can be surprisingly oblivious. No one ever tolerates you, Elli. You are not the sort that elicits bland feelings.”

I didn’t know what to say to that.

He clasped my arm and gave it a brief squeeze. “I need coffee and so do you,” he said, and marched me towards the dining room.

Oliver came down to breakfast just as I was on my way out.

“Going to work?” he enquired. His hair was damp and there was a nick on his chin caused by his razor. His eyes were puffy but that didn’t detract from the beauty of his tanned face.

I had to steel myself to appear nonchalant. “Busy day,” I replied, “I assume you are going to finish painting the shed.”

He nodded. “Are you going to see the kids?” he asked.

“Possibly,” I scowled, “Why?”

“Nothing,” he hesitated, “Benech is planning something; Madame Darel is certain of it. We may have to move them at some point.”

My heart thumped. “The only other place is here at Le Domaine,” I said. “I wouldn’t want them shipped around like parcels.”

I had raised my voice and Oliver was flushed, whether with anger or sorrow I couldn’t tell.

He stepped closer to me. “You are an entirely different person today,” he murmured. “It’s making me queasy.”

I looked up at him and saw that he was hurt. I couldn’t bear it any more than if I had seen him having a seizure. I made sure Mariette wasn’t around and leaned my head on Oliver’s chest. He was tense at first but then he put his arms around me and hugged me tight.

“I didn’t sleep well,” I said.

“You ran away before I could answer your question.”

I nuzzled his neck and inhaled the scent of soap and shaving cream. I wished I could lick and suck on his throat, but that would have led us astray in no time.

“The answer is yes, in case you are still interested.”

It took me a few seconds to grasp the meaning of his words. I looked into his eyes to check whether he was joking but he was in earnest. My sex responded too, and so did his, as testified by the bulge in his trousers.

“When,” was all I could say.

He smiled and his whole face lit up with it. “Tonight would be good.”

“It would be very good,” I said, and couldn’t resist giving him a quick peck on the lips.

“Be careful,” he murmured.

“I’ll do my best,” I replied, and watched him as he walked away from me.

Oliver’s warning had shaken me, despite my feigned indifference.

I approached Madame Darel’s house from the back and rapped at the service entrance. Solange let me in without asking questions. Her employer trusted her with her life but I was wary of her tendency to gossip.

“Elio, thank god you’ve come,” Madame Darel exclaimed once we were alone with two mugs of coffee crème. “Bernard has been reassigned.”

“What do you mean?”

Bernard was the gendarme who had saved Julien and Jacob from being on that train with their parents.

“Sent away, this morning,” she explained. Her face was pinched and her eyes red-rimmed. “The order came straight from Vichy. He’s been transferred, that’s the official explanation, but I’m not buying it. His family is from around here and the government has more important things to do than shuffle people around.”

“He promised he would erase the name of the Duguay children from the records,” I said. “And I’m sure that he did, since his own life depended on it.”

“Oh, I don’t doubt it for a moment,” she concurred. “If they had proof, they’d been here already. No, what I am afraid of is that the newcomer will want to prove himself to the Germans and order another _rafle_.”

“They won’t come to you,” I said. “Your ancestry is beyond reproach.”

She grimaced. “I am ashamed that our own people would do that, and to these two lovely babies,” her voice cracked. She swallowed her tears and continued, dry-eyed and determined. “I’m thinking about moving to the Riviera. I have friends over there and the kids will enjoy being by the sea. Solange will be delighted too: more eligible men.”

I smiled despite the ache in my chest: I was fond of Julien and Jacob and I would have to say goodbye to them, probably for good.

She sensed my reluctance and hastened to reassure me. “It’s my last resort because I’d rather stay in my own home than be forced to rent a house from strangers. I hate being chased away from where I belong but I will do it if they leave me no other choice.”

Before I could thank her, the door burst open and Jacob spilled in, followed by his brother.

“Did you bring us presents?” he said, as he tried to climb into my lap.

Julien studied me closely, afraid to show that he was relieved that I’d returned; that he’d perhaps expected that I wouldn’t.

“Not with me, but I have something for later, if you are good.”

“Am always good,” said Jacob. I pulled him up and settled him on my lap while his brother sat cross-legged at my feet. They’d both grown since Madame Darel had taken them in and they looked healthier and less anxious.

“Jules plays the piano,” Jacob said, digging his fingers into my chest.

“I’m no good,” said his elder sibling “And don’t call me that. Maman used to.”

Jacob’s face puckered up and his eyes filled with tears.

“You like colouring,” I said, kissing his plump cheek. “I have some lovely crayons with your name on it.” I looked down at Julien and smiled. “And when I return, maybe you can play something for me, so that I can judge whether you are good or not.”

“He’s a quick learner,” said Madame Darel, and the boy was obviously pleased, even though he didn’t want to show it.

I gave Jacob another cuddle then put him down next to his brother. He immediately curled around Julien, having already forgotten their little quarrel.

Leaving them was unthinkable, but there might be no other way out.

I wanted to tell Oliver, and that troubled me almost as the fear of loss and abandonment.

***

I hadn’t slept a wink since returning to my bedroom after Elio had said kissed me goodnight and left. I couldn’t stop thinking about what we’d said and what we’d done, and how shocking it had been to hear Elio speak those words in my mother tongue.

Perhaps it was stupid, but while I was living in a foreign country and using a different language, I could also be another person. It wasn’t even a matter of pretending – nothing as crude as that - but more like slipping on a new set of clothes, indulging a new side of me. But when Elio had switched to English, I’d felt naked and not in a good way. Hypocrite that I was: had I really believed that I could escape reality?

I wasn’t going to be an exotic lover, but the boring foreigner who had not much to offer in bed.

The sky was pale blue when I decided that it was no use to run around in endless circles: I wanted Elio and, more than that, I wanted to find out what it was like to finally let go; not having to censor my deepest desires and allowing my partner free rein with his, no questions asked.

As for my feelings, I’d put them aside for later.

Another pretence I’d decided to shed with Samuel was that of my provenance; he was too smart to believe I came from Alsace and not to guess that I was involved with the Maquis.

I didn’t want to betray my country in the slightest way, but I could certainly talk of my childhood, especially of the few years that I’d spent in Poitiers.

What I had not anticipated was his elation at the mention of the city. “In Paris, I used to be friends with a lovely lady who came from Poitiers. And you know what’s funny? Her closest acquaintances had a nick-name for her that reminds me of you: they called her Armance.”

I was stunned for a moment, before I recovered enough to ask, “Was she there with her family?”

He shot me an inquisitive look. “Her husband was travelling a lot, if that’s what you are asking. Her literary salons were legendary. They still are, probably.”

“What was her real name?”

“Gould,” he replied. That meant nothing to me, “Florence Gould.”

I saw auburn hair and green eyes and a crooked smile. I heard her high-pitched voice as she called for her brother.

“I believe I know her too,” I said. “She had a younger brother, Armand.”

Samuel seemed pleased, as though I’d provided him with the missing clue of a puzzle.

“That’s why she called herself that then,” he exclaimed. “I didn’t know she had a brother: from the way she spoke, you’d have said she was a single child and an orphan.”

“Is she still living in Paris?”

“As far as I know,” he replied. “She’s what they call a socialite; married a wealthy American; her second husband and the son of railroad magnate Jay Gould.”

I had vaguely heard of him but I didn’t pay much attention to that side of the news. I wondered what had happened to Armand and supposed I would never find out.

I was wrong on that score, and about many more things yet to come.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Next: Elio gets what he wants and then some...


	18. Possession

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Oliver and Elio, in their room.... smut ensues...
> 
> Elio's POV/Oliver's POV

“A young man left a message for you,” Juliette said, as I walked past her booth.

“How would you know that he was young,” I frowned, “Did he tell you or were you just guessing?”

She rolled her eyes and waved her hand in the direction of my office. “He came here, that’s how. I told him to leave it with me, but he insisted on dropping it through your door.”

It must have been Octave, I thought, and ran up the stairs. It was a plain white envelope that contained a folded piece of paper on which were scrawled a few words ‘_Same place tomorrow 22:00hrs_”. The telephone was no longer safe, but I doubted that written messages were any better. We’d have to find another way of communicating, although none seemed satisfactory.

Juliette had left a copy of the local paper on my desk: I skimmed through it but found nothing of interest. The Vichy police had intensified the search for the stolen Schloss paintings but it didn’t say whether they were any closer to finding them. I had wondered about that too, but had been distracted by my personal problems and by the presence of Oliver. I had spent months not bothering about sex but once that door had been opened, all the pent up desires had burst forth and would no longer be silenced.

I spent the rest of the morning dealing with paperwork and making phone calls, and when lunch-time came, I decided to go to the Café du Centre to test the waters.

The usual crowd was there, including Benech, who was talking to Gayral about the latter’s son.

“He should be back with us soon,” the owner of the Café was explaining. “After that, I don’t know what’ll happen. Some say the Germans are going to lose the war.”

Gayral’s wife emerged from the kitchen door and asked me whether I wanted to eat. I asked for some bread and cheese, and she brought me a chunk of runny Brie and a small baguette.

I took a seat by the window and pretended to mind my own business while in fact listening to the conversation.

“Nonsense,” replied Roudel, the ironmonger, “Russia hasn’t been lost yet. The Communists won’t go far.”

“Too right they won’t,” Dubois, the retired postman, agreed, “And the Germans are better organised.”

Gayral shook his head in a mournful way. “But the Russians have the home advantage. The winters there are terrible or so I have heard.”

Benech scoffed. “As if the Germans weren’t prepared for a bit of snow,” he said, stirring his coffee with some force. “They will do what they have to,” he added, “To rid Europe of those who seek to undermine us.”

Madame Gayral wiped the counter and muttered under her breath.

“What is it Esther?” her husband enquired.

“Nothing,” she replied, with a scowl. “All I know is we were better off before they came and we’ll be better off again once they are gone.”

There was a murmur of assent before Benech intervened again. “They are right about the Jews,” he said. “Time someone put them in their place.”

I felt the bile rise up my throat but I swallowed it down together with my food.

I debated whether to go to Le Domaine for dinner but finally decided to stay at home: I needed to rest and reflect on the situation. History was unfolding in front of our eyes and I was terrified by what I was able to discern: I couldn’t believe the Germans would keep Jewish people as prisoners; they’d have to feed them and why would they feed those they considered lower than vermin? Death was their final destination, and it would be mine and Papa’s, when the criteria were extended to include second or third-generation Jews. We would have to leave France if we wished to survive and maybe we’d have to kill a few people along the way. I wasn’t certain Papa would want to save himself, if it came to that. There was a vein of fatalism in him which had deepened since Maman had died and that made me doubt whether he’d put up a fight or rather sacrifice his life on the altar of some obscure philosophical principle.

I uncorked the wine and drank straight from the bottle. “To hell with all this,” I said out loud. Half a bottle later, I was maudlin and horny. I had eaten enough not to be tipsy but the warmth of the alcohol had seeped into my veins and I was desperate for Oliver, for his golden skin and his soft lips.

It was around nine when I put on my leather jacket and left the apartment.

“I was thinking about the grape harvest,” Oliver was saying. I stood behind the dining room door which had been left ajar.

“That’s not a bad idea,” Papa replied. “It’s the last stretch and they’ll be exhausted. Most of them are old, even older than me,” he laughed.

Oliver laughed too. “You forget that I have seen you ride a bike,” he said.

I smiled at their easy camaraderie and wished Oliver and I could have that without the friction that often embittered our exchanges. I sighed and made my way upstairs.

I was lighting my second cigarette when I heard the door open.

“You could have come in you know,” he said, with a wink.

He couldn’t have possibly seen me, I thought, so I called his bluff.

“I don’t know what you are talking about,” I huffed. He walked up to me and I turned to look out the window.

“I heard your footsteps,” he replied, and his breath tickled the nape of my neck. “I’d recognise them anywhere and how strange is that?”

My heart lurched and I had to restrain the impulse to lean back against him.

“Very,” I murmured. “You are full of surprises.”

“I didn’t mean to keep you waiting,” he said, his lips brushing the side of my neck. “But I had to get ready for---you know what.”

“Are you ashamed to say it?”

I knew I was being unfair but he was the sore spot I couldn’t stop prodding.

“I don’t want to fight,” he said, and I sense that he’d moved away from me.

I turned around to face him and studied his expression.

“Yes, you do,” I argued. “Or maybe you don’t want it but you need it.”

He gave a bitter laugh. “If you say so,” he replied.

I stalked up to him and started to undo the buttons of his shirt, quickly and without any finesse. “I do say so,” I gritted out, as I tore the garment from his body. “You’ve not been cherished as you deserve, I told you already.”

His pupils had gone wide and he breathing hard through his parted lips, but he wasn’t touching me yet.

“And fighting me is, what, a way of showing me that you care?” he husked.

“Yes,” I moaned, as I slid my hand down his back and inside his pants.

***

My first instinct was to run out, shut the door and return to my room.

Elio’s tongue was teasing the seam of my mouth while his fingers were tracing the crease of my ass. I wanted this, and had wanted it for a while, but a part of me was screaming that it wasn’t right; that I wasn’t supposed to enjoy it this way; that this was a bit filthy and to be indulged sparingly, possibly only after a drink or three.

“You’re nervous,” he whispered, his hot breath on my lips. “Tell me why.”

“It’s been a while,” I half-lied.

My thighs and buttocks were tight with tension. His hand moved up to stroke along my spine and shoulder blades.

“You can have me, I don’t mind,” he said, but the spark between us had died down.

I’ve disappointed him, I thought. He released me and went to sit on the bed, his back against the headboard, bare feet on the mattress; he lit another cigarette, taking long pulls with his eyes shut. I stretched out by his side, waiting.

“I don’t want it to be a penance,” he said, after a few moments. “If you are not ready, don’t pretend you are.”

“It’s not that,” I replied, feeling a mixture of emotions I couldn’t quite sift through. I eyed the brandy but decided against it. “I’m afraid it’s not going to be very good for you. You are so unrestrained and I am---”

Elio stubbed out the cigarette and rolled on top of me. His erection was a long hard line pressing against my belly. He caged me with his arms and brought his face to mine, so close I could hardly see him.

“Bullshit,” he hissed. “You are afraid you are gonna like it too much.”

“And what if I am,” I bit back. “I’m not made for---”

He shot me a look of defiance. “Say it,” he challenged me. “Or I’ll say it for you.”

“For being the one who takes it,” I replied, feeling as though I was about to catch fire.

In a flash, Elio slid down my body, tugging at my pants and pulling them down, freeing my prick and bollocks.

“But you want to,” he said, his voice low and rough. “You want me to fuck you until you scream, don’t you?”

He nuzzled the hair at the base of my cock and breathed in. I was shivering all over and both my hands were tangled in his curls. I let my knees fall to the side, all of my sex on display for him.

“I want you so much,” he whispered.

“Please,” I keened, craving his touch on my skin.

His tongue traced a wet path on the underside of my shaft as his fist closed around the head.

My body arched off the bed. “Fuck,” I cried out.

Elio grabbed my hip, dug his fingers into my flesh: the pain anchored me for a short while, until he lapped at the spot behind my balls, flicking the tip at the rim of my anus. It was unlike anything I’d ever experienced: I had been fingered, had done it to myself only minutes before coming to meet Elio, but this was something else; I’d wanted to do it but never imagined someone would wish to do it to me.

“Like it?” Elio murmured, his words spearing through me. He guessed what my response was going to be. “Because I do,” he said, and moaned as he licked and sucked on my wet hole. “I love this, Oliver.”

I had taken a hold of my dick and was rubbing it while clutching a handful of Elio’s curls in my other fist. I barely knew what I was doing, lost as I was in the maddening pleasure of Elio’s tongue and his fingers, which were working me loose and driving me insane.

I was seconds from coming when he pulled off me.

“I need to be inside you,” he said, a frantic look in his dark eyes. I nodded, too far gone for coherence. He kicked off his pants and rummaged inside the drawer of the nightstand. “I put it here,” he exclaimed, his long, hard dick jutting out of his flushed body. He finally found the jar of ointment he was looking for and kneeled between my legs. My balls ached so much I wondered if they’d been ruined for good.

“Like this, okay?” he said, “I want to look at you.”

I stared at him as he slicked his prick with the ointment, my hands suddenly all over his chest, his small rounded buttocks, his lean thighs.

“Rub my nipples,” he croaked, and when I tweaked them, his eyes rolled back in his head. They were tiny brown buttons but I felt them swell and lengthen between my fingers. I would have continued but I was desperate to have Elio inside me; to feel what I’d never felt before.

“I’ll go slowly,” he murmured, and bent down to kiss me. His mouth tasted of me and I licked deep inside it, feeling him melt against me.

“I need you,” I murmured, almost without realising it. He nodded and stroked my cheek with his knuckles.

It took us a moment to find the right angle and when he pushed in, the sting of it nearly caused me to shove him off me.

He kept caressing me and murmuring gentle, praising words I couldn’t understand over the rush of my blood, the pain and – above all – the overwhelming bliss of being possessed by Elio.

“Oh god, that’s it, oh dear god,” he groaned, when he was fully seated inside me. His hair was damp with sweat and his face was all sharp angles and wide eyes.

I looked up at him and smiled, or at least did my best to. “I’m full of you,” I said, not expecting his reaction: he threw himself at me and dotted my throat with biting kisses. I held him tight, running my hands through his hair and feeling like I was dangling at the edge of an abyss. When he clutched my shoulders and thrust into me, I held my breath. He did it again and again, and the pleasure bloomed inside me, my nerves taut and responsive like violin strings.

“Harder, fuck, please,” I heard myself beg. Elio pulled out to the tip and slammed back in, and I threw my head back, screaming.

“You want this?” he rasped, his hungry mouth coaxing mine open, sucking on my tongue.

“Yes,” I was panting, “Fuck me, Elio,” I cried.

He uttered a sound like a wounded animal and drove into me with all his strength; the bed-frame rattled and banged against the wall. I grabbed his hips and pulled him to me and as I did that, he ground into me; the change was minimal, but something inside of me unfurled and came undone.

“Yes, oh god,” I screamed, as rope after rope of semen spattered my belly.

Elio seized up, his beautiful body clenching and shivering as he emptied himself inside of me. I gathered him close, and kept him there, wishing he’d never leave.


	19. Flux et Reflux

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Like some of you guessed, here comes the fallout.
> 
> But before that, have more smut ha ha
> 
> Oliver's POV/Elio's POV

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Flux et Reflux = Ebb and Flow

“You okay?” Elio asked.

I’d winced when he’d pulled out and when he’d wiped at the mess seeping out of me. It had been painful and embarrassing but also thrilling and sensual, especially when the pad of his thumb had brushed along my puffy rim.

“You should know,” I replied, smiling at his worried frown. “It was--- a lot.”

He nodded and pressed a kiss on my shoulder.

“I hope it didn’t hurt too much,” he whispered.

“Only a bit and I didn’t mind,” I said, sounding prim and casual even to my own ears.

We had dozed off for an hour or so and had awakened to this odd state of things; I was unsure whether I should admit I wanted to stay or pretend that I’d rather go back to my room to sleep. Elio was on his back, looking pensively at the ceiling and rubbing a foot along the side of my calf. He had been careful not to invade my space but when I edged closer, he leaned into my touch.

“You didn’t mind,” he repeated, with a sarcastic snort.

I guided his hand to my lower belly, to a patch of skin crusted with semen.

“I don’t recall ever coming like that before,” I murmured.

His fingers trailed down and weaved through the wiry hairs matted with ejaculate.

“I wished you’d come in my mouth,” he said, licking his bottom lip.

My prick was no longer soft, but I ignored it; there were things that needed saying before anything else could happen.

“And the other thing you did,” I went on, “Do you really like doing that?”

He yanked at the hair he’d been petting; pain and arousal were so intermingled I couldn’t tell one from the other.

“I told you I did,” he replied, the green of his eyes was the same shade as absinthe. “I wasn’t lying,” he spat out. “And let’s call it by its name, shall we?” He shot me a challenging look.

“I don’t know what,” I started. Elio jumped up and climbed on top of me, straddling my waist.

He grabbed my chin between thumb and forefinger and tipped my head up then he bent down, his face inches from mine.

“I loved eating your ass, Oliver,” he enunciated slowly. “I loved pushing my tongue into your hole and licking you, inside and outside; loved the way you tasted, even if you think it’s filthy and wrong. And while we are at it, I love drinking down your come, the more you have for me, the better.”

He let me go and stared at me, panting. I pulled him down to me and took his mouth in a deep, wet kiss.

“Fuck,” he rasped, sliding down my body and resting his head on my sternum. “I didn’t mean to be nasty to you.”

“You’d warned me,” I replied, as I stroked his curls. I hesitated a moment before continuing, but Elio’s honesty had inspired mine. “I don’t think it’s filthy and wrong, but I was always told it was.”

“Peter?” he asked.

“Talking about him in that respect would be terribly disloyal of me,” I said, “But it was the first time for me, one way or the other.”

He trailed a hand up and down my side, from armpit to hip: it was soothing and enticing. 

“I’ve wanted to try,” I murmured. “But it’s not been easy.”

Elio drew a circle around one of my nipples.

“You can do what you like to me,” he whispered, making my prick swell up.

“Would it be---,” I stopped to clear my throat, “Have you, has anyone done it to you?”

His thumb brushed the very tip of my nipple and I bit my tongue to stifle a moan.

“Never,” he said, “The men I’ve been with were like your men, they found it demeaning.” His hot breath replaced his thumb and I could feel his tongue hovering just above my tit. The next moment seemed to stretch forever, until I couldn’t resist any longer and dragged Elio’s head down. His lips and teeth were on my flesh and the hand he’d placed on my hip moved to my crotch and groped my sex. I let him feast on me for a long, magnificent, while, but I’d felt his own erection press against my leg and I needed, wanted to have it alongside mine.

“Come up here,” I croaked, and he made a displeased sound when I hauled him up. “What,” he complained, but his expression softened as soon as he saw the look on my face. “Tell me,” he whispered. I couldn’t find the words but bucked my hips while kneading the tight flesh of his ass.

“Is this what you want,” he said, and gathered our cocks together; they were already slick and the friction was pure bliss.

“Say yes,” he hissed, grazing the head of my prick with a fingernail.

“God yes,” I cried, as my fingers dug into his buttocks.

“Help me out,” he said, in between moans. “Your dick is too thick, I need a hand.”

Together, we soon found a delicious rhythm and, trying and failing to kiss on the mouth, we touched every part of each other’s body we could reach. I stared into Elio’s eyes as he was about to shoot his load and felt my own pleasure crest, coating his fingers and both our stomachs and bellies; he came soon after, throwing his head back in a silent scream.

“We should go to sleep,” he said, as we lay – still out of breath and boneless – side by side.

I had cleaned us up this time and felt the outline of his ribs under his soft skin.

“Did you eat while you were away?”

He took a drink of water and handed me the glass.

“Food was scarce and the workers needed it more than I did,” he replied. “I am used to running on empty.”

“You should take better care of yourself,” I protested. “You’d be no use to anyone if you have a break-down.”

His defences were immediately up. “I know what I’m doing,” he argued. “We are young, we can withstand more at our age.”

I didn’t want to tell him about my heart condition since – after all – I hardly believed in it myself.

“All the same,” I said, “You should keep your strength up.”

He threw me a lewd look. “Are you complaining about my stamina?” he drawled.

“Your stamina will kill me,” I joked, and he laughed. “I very much want you alive,” he said, and his laugh morphed into a yawn.

“Time to go,” I suggested, making it sound like a question.

Elio nodded and sat up on the bed, turning his back on me. Swiftly, he put on his clothes and padded towards the door. “See you later,” he said, without so much as a backward glance.

“Later,” I replied, but the door was already shut behind him.

***

This won’t do, I said to myself as I hurried back to my room.

Sneaking out of a lover’s apartment may have been fun while in Paris, but it felt wrong here. And there wasn’t any alternative, since Oliver and I were not a couple nor would we ever be more than two ships passing in the night.

“Fucking cliché,” I muttered.

I was too tired to ponder the reasons of my displeasure, so I stumbled into the toilet for a quick slash then collapsed atop my bed and drifted off.

The following morning, I woke up and decided that I wouldn’t let Oliver get under my skin. He was handsome and he was good company, but this wasn’t the time or the place for deeper connections, for lasting relationships.

I was willing to give him what he wanted in bed, but without digressions: I didn’t need to know what Peter meant to him or what their future in England would be like. Besides, I had more pressing concerns relating to the boys and to my meeting with Octave. When I’d read his message, I’d considered the possibility of taking Oliver with me, but as things stood it was probably best if I said nothing at all.

I was out the door and about to get on my bike, when I heard Oliver’s voice coming from the direction of the chicken coop.

“Morning,” he said, “Slept well?”

“Like the dead,” I replied, without looking at him.

He grasped the handlebars, steadying the bike for me.

“What’s wrong?” he asked. “Why are you upset?”

I smiled, or tried to. “Nothing to do with you,” I said, and then to change the subject. “I’ve heard you’re going to harvest grapes.”

He ran a hand through his hair and sighed. “It’ll give me something to do and I'll possibly make some new acquaintances.”

I felt a sudden pang of jealousy. “I’m sure you’ll be very popular,” I said, dryly. “They haven’t seen anything like you around here, I don’t think.”

He smirked. “That’s not what I meant, but thanks for the vote of confidence.”

“I have to go,” I said, even though I wanted very much to stay.

“When will I see you again?” he asked, and while his tone was confident, his eyes told a different story.

“Not tonight,” I replied, “But soon, I hope.”

He released my bike and placed his hand on my wrist, squeezing it lightly.

“Promise you’ll be careful,” he said.

“I don’t make promises I can’t keep,” I replied, and cycled away from him, ignoring the sting in my eyes and at the back of my throat.

That day I went to a nearby village to visit a supplier of Italian marble and my mood wasn’t improved by finding out that there hadn’t been any recent deliveries.

“We can’t compete with the Germans,” the owner had said. “They can pay a premium and since they are starving us, we can barely keep our heads above water.”

On my journey back, I’d stopped in the middle of a deserted field and screamed at the top of my lungs. Rage went through me like a sharp needle and I sobbed curled up in a pathetic ball, like an infant throwing a tantrum. Afterwards, I felt lighter but not quite relieved. There was nothing more awful than loving and not being loved in return: my own country was rejecting me, making me feel like a stranger on a road to nowhere.

At dinner, I transgressed my vow of sobriety and imbibed a half bottle of brandy. It afforded me something close to happiness, not the full cream variety but an acceptable substitute. It made me horny too, but I had no intention of surrendering to the vision of Oliver’s naked flesh and how amazing he had felt as I’d pounded into him.

“Damn,” I swore, and palmed my prick into submission.

I poured some liquor into my hipflask, grabbed my leather jacket and my rucksack, and headed to my meeting with Octave.

I was used to him being there before me, but this time there was no sign of his presence. I checked my watch: it was just gone ten.

Something was wrong, I was sure of it.

I didn’t switch the light on but I had brought my electric torch with me.

Time elapsed and no one arrived.

Ten minutes later I wondered whether it was a trap and hid behind the disused pigsty.

Thirty minutes later, I heard a noise coming from the back. That was the path through the orchards and the olive trees, which was seldom used at night due to its near-impracticable nature.

I made sure I wasn’t visible and stared into the darkness, trying to ascertain the identity of the approaching figure.

The sliver of moon cast a tenuous glow but I’d been there long enough to become accustomed to it: I could see the outline of the figure and was fairly sure I recognised it; it was the gold of his hair that finally gave him away.

I ran out of my hiding place, uncaring of the effect my sudden apparition was gonna have on him.

“What the hell are you doing here?” I hissed.

Oliver – because it was him – jumped off his bike and threw himself on the grass.

At first, I thought it was a trick they’d taught him at that stupid spy camp of his, but when I saw that I didn’t move, I crouched down and flashed the torch in his face: he was unconscious.


	20. Heart to Heart

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Explanations. 
> 
> Despite what's happening, the boys still find the time to flirt because what's a war when you are falling in love?
> 
> Elio's POV

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> There is a place nearby which is called Condom, but I thought this was a step too far even for me lolz

There had been no gunshots but my first thought had been of a sniper with a silencer. I ran frantic hands all over Oliver’s body but didn’t find any trace of blood or wounds. I checked whether he was breathing and concluded that he must have fainted. There wasn’t time for any social niceties, so I slapped his face a couple of times. I made sure his head wouldn’t collide with the ground by cupping the nape of his neck and holding it firmly.

Oliver blinked and turned away from the light of the torch.

“Elio,” he rasped.

The terror I’d felt morphed into red hot wrath.

“Why are you here?” I asked, “Were you following me?”

He shook his head and tried to sit up.

“Wait a moment,” I said, “Tell me what’s going on first.”

“I don’t know what you mean,” he lied, badly.

I straddled his thighs and held on to his shoulders.

“You are not going anywhere until you tell me what the fuck is wrong with you.”

He glared at me; I could tell even if the torch was no longer illuminating his face.

“There is no time,” he replied. “We should get away from here.”

“You are not getting on that bike again.”

His lips curved in a half-smile. “Isn’t that what you are supposed to do: dust yourself off and try again?”

“Not when you might have just broken your neck,” I argued.

“You’re being too dramatic,” he said.

It was my turn to scowl, but then I thought: to hell with it. I got back on my feet and helped him up. He swayed a little but I refrained from commenting or from coming to his aid.

“We better go to my apartment,” I said. “In case Octave has left me a message there.”

He seemed doubtful – and so was I - but he agreed to follow me to Lavaurette.

There had been no word from Octave and I hadn’t wanted to stop at the office, eager as I was to sit Oliver down to interrogate him. Anyway, it was highly unlikely that Octave would have ventured into Lavaurette at that hour.

I served Oliver a glass of brandy while he was lying down on my couch.

“Here we are again,” I said. I watched him drink and remarked the pallor of his face under the golden tan. It unsettled me, but I schooled my expression to one of mildly annoyed impatience. “Now will you please tell me what the hell is going on?”

He cleared his throat and held the tumbler with both hands, staring at the amber liquid sloshing inside it.

“Arrhythmia,” he replied, “It doesn’t bother me usually, but the doctor warned of dizziness when under strain.”

My heart fluttered in sympathy, like a flailing bird trapped in my chest.

“Those idiots in England,” I started, but he cut through my objections.

“I told you that I hated being a pen-pusher,” he said. “And if I can’t be in active service, I’d rather be here than back in London.”

I perched on the arm of the sofa, grabbed a fistful of his hair and pulled.

“Ouch, what’s that for?” he groused.

“For not telling me the truth,” I replied, smugly. I wanted very much to kiss him better but not until he’d finished spilling the beans.

“You never asked,” he said. Maybe I should slap him again, I thought.

“We’ll return to this later,” I continued. “Tell me about tonight.”

“Have you heard about Vartain?”

“The new chief gendarme who replaced Bernard?”

He nodded. “I was here in Lavaurette this afternoon, at the ironmonger’s. You must have been at work, it was about three.”

“I went to visit a supplier in Cazals. Why, what happened?”

“While I was browsing, I overheard a conversation between two men. The police were on to something, they said. They mentioned the Resistance, crates of weapons and another village, I believe it was Septfonds. I didn’t want to telephone or go to your office. I came here after dinner, but you’d left already. I shouldn’t have left it that late.”

I thought about informing Limoges, but wondered whether it could be a trap designed to intercept further cells of the Maquis. The disappearance of Octave took a different complexion: if he too had heard of a possible raid, little wonder he’d decided to miss our rendezvous. And whatever was supposed to happen at 22:00 hrs had not taken place: there had been no parachute drops and no low-flying planes.

“How did you know where to find me?”

He sighed. “Where else would you be? This morning you said you were going to be busy.”

“I could have been playing cards or visiting the whorehouse.”

That latter word made him wince.

“Next time I’ll try there too,” he said, dryly.

He placed the glass on the low table and stood up. “I should go,” he said. “I don’t want to inconvenience you any further.”

“Sit down,” I said. “You are not going anywhere.”

Oliver paid me no mind and would have walked out of the room had I not barred his way. “Are you deaf or just stupid?” I spat.

“You ungrateful shit,” he bit back, as he manhandled me away from the door.

“What did you expect, a votive candle and a prayer, down on my knees?”

“Sod off,” he growled, and stalked to the hallway. I followed him and since my insults didn’t seem to have any effect on him, I jumped on his back and wrapped my legs around his waist. He swore at me and tried to shake me off, until the ludicrousness of the situation hit him; he burst into fits of laughter and I insulted him some more before joining in. Eventually, we went back to the sitting room and collapsed on the couch.

“You are completely mad,” he was gasping and laughing still.

“Look who’s talking,” I replied, nudging him with my elbow. “You are the one who dropped down in front of me like a swooning heroine.”

“Unfeeling boy,” he muttered.

I rested my head on his shoulder and caressed his chest. “Is it dangerous?” I enquired, pressing the palm of my hand to the spot above his heart.

“No, I don’t believe it is,” he replied, “Not as dangerous as you.”

I found his nipple and pinched it. He chuckled and kissed my brow.

“What should we do about Octave?” he asked.

“I have a contact number, but I doubt it’s safe.”

“Probably not,” he agreed.

“I’ll call Limoges from Mouillac,” I said. “There’s a public telephone inside the post office. There’s no one there early in the morning.”

“I’ll come with you.”

“You’ll do nothing of the sort. I mean, look at you.”

“A piece of art nouveau furniture in a world of basic proportions?” he smiled.

My cheeks warmed up. “I wonder who said that.”

“You did, right here in this very room.”

I gave up pretending. “I did and I was right, which is why you can’t come with me to Mouillac.”

“We’ll see,” he replied. “Now, if you want me to stay over, may I have a blanket and a pillow?”

“You must remember why I made that comment.”

“It was about sleeping on the sofa.”

“About NOT sleeping on the sofa,” I countered. “You’ll take the bed and I---”

“It’s a huge bed,” he interjected. “And you are used to sleeping with me, in a manner of speaking.”

I was only delaying the inevitable because I was afraid of liking said inevitable a little too much.

“Fine,” I conceded. “I’ll go tidy up the mess.”

“I’m going to brush my teeth,” he said. “Unless you need to piss, in which case tell me now instead of barging in like you did last time.”

“You are a very demanding guest.”

I was joking but it bothered me a little that he’d resented my early attempt at intimacy. He studied me with serious eyes.

“I didn’t mind, you know?” he said, stroking my cheek. “I was a bit surprised but not disgusted, if that’s what you’re thinking.”

“Because you went to boarding school,” I suggested.

“That, and the fact that you intrigued me,” he said. His eyes never left mine and I was feeling slightly dizzy too.

“I did?”

He kissed the tip of my nose. “You do, all the time,” he replied, and left me there, staring after him like a gaping idiot.

I lent him the same pyjama jacket as the previous time and I climbed into bed while he was still undressing. He wasn’t shy and I enjoyed the show even though I did my best to appear uninterested.

“You don’t mind that I’m here,” he said, when he was stretched out by my side.

I was distracted by the colour of his eyes: I couldn’t tell whether it was cornflower or azure. He was grinning at me. “What?” I said, and he repeated what he’d said.

“I’d rather you hadn’t collapsed but no, of course, I don’t mind.”

“Don’t you like it when men fall at your feet?”

I slapped his arm. “I certainly do not.”

“Quit hitting me,” he said, with the same wide grin on his lips.

“Your words say one thing, but your body says another.”

“Like you are any different,” he laughed.

“You should rest,” I said, putting the nightlight out. I knew that I was being childish, but I couldn’t bear the scrutiny. He got the message and curled on his side, facing the wall. “Goodnight,” he murmured, to which I replied “’Night,” feeling like a kid who’s been sent to bed without dinner.

His hair shone in the dark; the back of his neck and the ridge of his shoulder seemed vulnerable; I wanted to feel them against my skin.

I reached out to check the dip in the mattress and wondered if I could get away with claiming that I’d rolled down and into him.

“Are you sleeping?” I whispered, instead.

“It’s not been a minute.”

He didn’t budge, didn’t even turn his head.

“I was really scared, you know?” It was easier to say it if he wasn’t looking at me. “And now you are here, and no one’s ever spent the night.”

“We don’t have to do anything,” he replied. “I’m aware of our agreement.”

I didn’t appreciate the reminder.

“You sound like a lawyer.”

He shifted round and I took the chance to move closer to him,

“I didn’t mean to worry you,” he said, softly. “I’ve never really believed there was anything the matter with me.”

“Aside from being stubborn as a mule?”

“You might want to look in a mirror,” he joked.

We smiled at each other. “I’d rather look at you,” I blurted out.

My hands were on him before I realised that I’d been moving: one in his hair and the other on his ass. I pulled him to me, kissing him everywhere.

He hesitated for a second, probably unsure of that was happening, but then he reciprocated with the same hungriness.

His mouth tasted of mint and brandy and licked into it, made it mine. I wanted him and his hard length was digging into my belly; at the same time, I didn’t wish to spoil the rightness of the moment, and I suspected that he felt the same way.

“I could fall asleep like this,” he said, dragging his lips along my jaw.

He was holding me in his arms and our legs were entwined.

“No one’s stopping you,” I murmured, relishing the feel of his muscles, his hairy thighs, his musky smell. I uttered a contented sound which made him chuckle.

“Sweet dreams, Elio,” he said, and I could have replied that I didn’t need those when I had him in my bed. I could have, but I was already dreaming.


	21. Sick as You

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Smut and intrigue.
> 
> Elio is in denial and Oliver is living his best life...
> 
> Oliver's POV / Elio's POV

Something was tickling my nose and when I opened my eyes, I saw that it was Elio's curls. We were sharing the same pillow and the stark light of dawn highlighted his imperfections: the straggly hairs on his chin and above his upper lip, the tiny scar on his cheek, a red splotch on his forehead, the flaky crusts at the corner of his eyes; he was human, not ethereal, and with a moodiness to match.

There were traces of the older man he’d become in the fragile skin of his temples and brow. I wished that he would be allowed to have wrinkles and grey hair, that he’d survive the war, both in body and spirit.

“You are staring at me,” he mumbled, scrunching his nose.

“Just checking on the progress of your moustache,” I replied, as I stroked the fuzz on his jaw.

The scrunch became a bona-fide grimace.

“Not at my best,” he muttered, “Early morning,” and he would have slithered away to the other side of the bed had I not grabbed him thus forcing him to open his eyes and look at me. I smiled at his discomfited expression and planted a smacker on his mouth. “There!” I said, and the glance he threw at me was puzzled and not amused.

“You are making fun of me,” he said, with a croaky voice, “Doesn’t mean you’ll have the last laugh.” Just as these words were spoken, his hand was on my crotch, fingers stroking my length and teasing my balls.

“Not playing fair,” I replied through gritted teeth.

“Tell me to stop,” he said, but I had no intention of doing that.

I ran my tongue along the seam of his lips and he let me in. “Should brush my teeth,” he protested, but without any heat. He tasted a bit sour but I didn’t mind; after a while, all that mattered was his wetness and warmth, the grunts and moans he uttered whenever I kneaded his ass or brushed against his prick. It would have been easy to let it happen like that: a sweaty rut and two satisfactory orgasms; It might have been had I not caught a whiff of his sex. I shut my eyes and inhaled it; the question formed itself and came out of my mouth as a statement.

“I want to do what you did to me,” I said, nuzzling his collarbone.

To his credit, he didn’t ask what I meant or whether we should wait until we were in the safe confines of our room. Later, I’d come to realise that this synergy between our bodies - the complete understanding that comes from flesh and blood before mind and reason - that was my undoing, the crossing of a line that could not be uncrossed; the bell that could never be unrung, but I did not yet know, at least not completely.

“I should go to the bathroom,” he replied, with the hint of a question mark.

And there was the something that had embarrassed me into silence, the part of me that I’d not wanted to show, like a wound crawling with maggots.

“If you can’t talk of it at the club over a good cigar, you better keep it to yourself,” was my step-father’s motto, and it had stayed with me and followed me into the bedroom.

I spoke my truth against Elio’s skin, while he stroked my hair. “I want to taste you, sweat and all. If you think it’s filthy---”

“I told you I don’t,” he argued. “Everything’s allowed, as long as you are sure that’s what you want.”

“I’ve never been surer of anything,” I replied.

We kissed again, but with more teeth and tongue than before. When we broke apart, Elio rolled onto his stomach. He had already removed his shorts and kicked away the covers; he came up on his elbows, his pert round bum in the air.

It might have been funny if it hadn’t been for the fullness of his balls or the eroticism of his long white body. Years of wanting this in vain had put paid to my finesse and the possibility of foreplay; I didn’t hesitate: I spread his buttocks and licked a wet stripe from his sac to his tail-bone; beneath me, Elio was shivering and moaning, tilting up his pelvis and parting his legs as much as he could; I petted the back of his thighs and dove in again, this time circling his hole with the tip of my tongue, flattening the soft hairs that lined it. It tasted bitter and a bit salty at first but that too changed and became like the inside of a mouth that I couldn’t wait to devour. I had been fully hard since Elio had removed his underwear and he was bucking into the pillows, seeking friction and release.

“Fuck,” he cried out, “Gonna come if you keep at it.”

“Yeah,” I said, sucking at the plump ring of muscle.

“Jesus, Oliver,” he shouted. His hips stuttered wildly, and I saw stars when he pushed back into me and my tongue slid inside him. It all happened in a blur: his screams, my groans as I stabbed into him with the help of a forefinger, the pungent reek of semen as he shot his load in three, four vicious spurts.

“You fucking killed me,” he whined when I released him. My face burned, my lips hurt and my prick was in dire need of attention.

“You were; just, yes,” I husked, and started to pull at my cock, wanting to come all over Elio’s back.

“Want help?” he said, reaching back with his hand. I grasped it and gave it a squeeze.

“No need,” I replied, panting, “Won’t take long,” and on the next upstroke, I felt it rush through me and onto Elio’s milky skin.

“Was it like you’d imagined it?” he asked, as I cleaned him up.

“Mostly,” I replied, “But better because it was real. What was it that famous poem says? _I’m half-sick of shadows_,” I quoted.

“Tennyson,” he said, “My mother loved him.”

I kissed the bumps of his spine, breathing in the residual smell of ejaculate. 

“I’m sick, aren’t I?” I murmured.

Elio turned to the side and pulled me down on top of him. He rubbed his thumb across my bottom lip.

“I wish everyone were as sick as you,” he murmured.

We stared into each other's eyes for a long time and then he kissed me, savouring my mouth, showing me that he meant every word.

***

“Don’t insist,” I chided Oliver, as I downed my second cup of coffee. “You are going back to Le Domaine like we agreed. I’ll leave first. Wait ten minutes or so and make sure no one’s outside.”

“Lucky you don’t have a concierge,” he said. “Although if you did, I’d have made friends with her and she’d have told me all your secrets.”

I snorted. “You have better things to do and so have I.”

He ruffled my hair and I tried – and failed – to scowl at him. “Speak for yourself,” he said, ruefully, “All I am good for is digging, shovelling and hammering.”

“I beg to differ.”

He blushed and rolled his eyes. “You are only trying to distract me.”

“Merely stating the facts,” I argued.

The conversation he was itching to have would have to wait if I wanted to be in Mouillac when the Post Office opened.

“I’ll see you tonight,” I said, while I grabbed my backpack and my keys. “Tell Papa I’ll be there for dinner. On second thought, don’t say anything or he’ll assume we have been together.”

“Bit late for that,” he said, with a tight little smile. “He already knows something’s going on between us.”

“Doesn’t mean I want to give him a running commentary,” I insisted. I could see that he was irked but he’d have to lump it.

“Shut the door behind you,” I said, running out as though the apartment were on fire.

I was already outside Lavaurette when I realised that Oliver had not asked me to enquire about Peter. He’d been told to lie low, but in his shoes I would not have listened to any advice: I’d have gone crazy otherwise. I imagined being Oliver’s lover and losing him like he’d lost Peter: I’d have walked all the way to Greenland if they’d told me he might be there. The shock of this discovery had me reeling and I nearly collided with a lamp-post.

“No, absolutely not,” I said, loudly. It was a country road and no one was around to hear me confabulate with myself. I was making a habit of shouting in deserted fields and perhaps it was a sign that I’d better rein in my emotions. Oliver was an adventure not something built to last.

Mouillac was a small village still steeped in the past; to a Parisian like me, it seemed to have eschewed modernity in favour of a rural bliss that should have belonged only in fairy-tales. The church with its Romanesque structure and unadorned bell tower was Mouillac’s main attraction and the public telephone the only concession to progress. No one seemed to be attracted to the latter, which is why the booth containing the dreaded instrument of communication was seldom occupied and largely ignored.

I left my bicycle in a side alley and went in. I made straight for the phone booth and released the breath that I’d been holding: everything had gone as planned.

I dialled the number and waited.

Twice there was no reply, but the third time a man answered.

“Romain here,” I said, “Octave missed a rendezvous and I’ve heard rumours about Septfonds.”

“That’s taken care of,” the man replied, “And Octave has been reassigned; too dangerous to stay in the same place for long.”

“What about me,” I said, “Am I surplus to requirement already?”

There was a moment’s silence.

“You have the foreigner staying with you.”

“What of it?”

“I have heard things about him,” the man replied. “He’s got friends in high places.”

I didn’t think Peter counted as such, but he might have been more than just a pilot. However, I had a feeling that it wasn’t the case.

“How would you know?”

He laughed. “That’s our job to know, isn’t it?”

“I suppose so,” I said, “What is it you want me to do?”

“Nothing at present,” he said, “But we’ll get in touch soon.”

“I’m not calling from my place. I don’t think that’s safe.”

He hummed. “We’ll find a way,” he replied. “In the meantime, go on as usual: the quiet life and all that.”

“For how long,” I asked, stupidly.

“Hell if I know,” he said, and ended the communication.

I had not been friends with Octave, not exactly, but I would miss his company and his sarcasm. We’d had a good run and we’d been lucky so far, but it was clever of the Limoges headquarters to cease operations in the area. We had derailed several trains and stolen crates of weapons, but the theft of the Schloss paintings had been a humiliation the Vichy police were never going to forgive and forget.

There were always spies and informers, even in close-knit communities such as Lavaurette’s. I wondered what the man had meant about Oliver; he had not asked me to find out, but he’d implied it; I didn’t like the idea of his past lovers; one was more than enough.

At the office, a package was waiting for me.

“It was delivered by a boy,” Juliette said. “Never seen him around here; must have been about thirteen or maybe slightly older. Dark complexion, brown eyes; didn’t give his name, didn’t speak; scuffed shoes, tired gait: must have been walking far.”

“You should have been a detective,” I remarked, not for the first time.

She shrugged. “I like to observe people. You, for instance---”

I raised a hand to stop her.

“Don’t tell me, please.”

“I was just going to say,” she went on, undeterred, “That if I were that Parisian fiancée of yours, I’d pack my bags and get on the first train to Lavaurette.”

I winked at her and ran up the stairs.

Once the door was shut, I tore up the brown paper and looked inside: it was a map of Spain with a cross on a location near the French border: Portbou.


	22. The Madness of War

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Elio and Oliver keep sparring but soon they will have a whole house to themselves for a few days. I wonder, how will they cope? (you know how)
> 
> Elio's POV / Oliver's POV

The silliest part of undercover work was to do with the devices of communication: the two long rings-one-short-ring telephone routine, the tapping in Morse code and, most ludicrous of all, the lemon juice used as ink.

The map had a white reverse side which I hoped would provide information as regards to the sender or some instruction on what to do next.

Thus I used my lighter to warm up the paper, paying attention not to scorch it or worse: predictably, nothing happened. I’d never found any evidence of secret writing outside of detective novels, but that never stopped me from trying my luck.

The significance of the location was obvious: Peter must be in Portbou. I doubted the map had been sent by him, or it would have included some coded reference that only Oliver could understand. I inspected it closely, but aside from the mark on the Spanish city, there were no other signs that it had been tampered with. It was an ordinary Michelin map, well-worn but not faded or torn.

I made sure the brown wrapping paper had no concealed message after which I threw it in the waste-paper basket.

The boy who had delivered it could have been Spanish or Italian, given Juliette’s description, and it was possible that he’d walked all the way from the border. Once upon a time it would have been a remarkable occurrence, but these days it was only slightly odd.

At lunchtime, after a quick déjeuner at the café, I strolled to the house of Madame Darel to check on the kids.

Solange let me in and I heard the notes of _Für Elise_ coming from the study.

“Not too bad,” I murmured, at which the girl replied, “Julien’s taken to it like a duck to water. Would you like to go in? I’m sure he’ll be chuffed to show off a little.”

I shook my head. “I’ll wait in the sitting room, if you don’t mind.”

She smiled and went to fetch Madame Darel.

“I have already made enquiries,” the lady of the house said, as she sipped her _digestif_, “All very hush-hush, via a friend of a friend and not through the telephone.”

“Cannes, I suppose.”

“Juan-les-Pins,” she corrected. “I should receive a reply soon and I will let you know once I have all the details. I might need help with the car hire. I don’t think the railways are an option.”

“I will find you a van and a driver.”

“Your friend, perhaps?” she suggested. “He looks like someone the Germans and the Vichy police wouldn’t question too much.”

She was right, and yet the possibility of sending Oliver away so soon made my chest feel too tight.

“It’s an interesting idea,” I replied, “And not without merit. I’ll talk to him about it.”

She coloured a little. “I already have,” she said. “Forgive my impertinence, but we had more than a few chances to speak while you were away and---”

My jaw was clenched so tight it had started to tremble. “And what did he say?” I asked.

Madame Darel was gazing at me in that perceptive way she must have used on her pupils when she’d been a teacher. “He said he’d think about it and that it also depended on you and on Monsieur Perlman.”

“We’d manage without him,” I replied, but was eager to change the subject. “I heard Julien play. He’s come on in leaps and bounds.”

She beamed. “He’s such a bright kid,” she enthused. “Clever and studious; a bit moody at times, but one can hardly blame him for that.”

“And what about Jacob, he seemed to enjoy drawing.”

“He’s a sweet child,” her face was suffused with tenderness, “Affectionate and always willing to help.”

“You’ve grown fond of them.”

Her eyes became hard as flint. “They better not try and take them from me,” she said. “I still have my dear husband’s pistol and his rifle and I’d not be afraid to use them.”

I drained my glass of Pastis.

“Would you like to see them before you go?” she asked.

“Better not,” I replied. “It wouldn’t do to become too attached.”

Her smile was sad.

“Isn’t it already too late?”

It was.

I arrived at the Le Domaine at sundown and found Oliver sitting outside the newly repainted shed, smoking a cigarette.

“Well done,” I said, “It no longer looks like a ramshackle old hut.”

He laughed. “You know me, a man of many talents.”

“The latter, yes, but as to the former: obviously not.”

His smile faltered.

“What’s wrong, nothing happened to Octave, I hope.”

I got off my bike, leaned it against the trunk of a tree, and sat on the bench next to Oliver. He offered me his cigarette but I took one from my packet instead.

“He’s been reassigned,” I replied. “We have been left out to dry for the moment being.”

“Too dangerous after the rail robbery?”

“Wasn’t a robbery,” I argued, “But that’s the gist of it.”

We smoked in silence for a while.

I was the one to break it. “Madame Darel said you spoke about driving her and the kids to the Riviera.”

“Nothing definite,” he replied. “We didn’t make plans behind your back, if that’s what you are implying.”

There was the anger again, surging like a roaring fire.

“I don’t recall implying anything in particular,” I said, voice deceptively calm, “I was merely enquiring about something I’ve heard earlier today.” _Not from your lips_, was the unspoken conclusion.

“I didn’t want to say,” he sighed. “Last time we spoke about the children, you got upset.”

“You dislike confrontation.”

“I don’t like being shouted at for no reason.”

The horizon was painted orange and indigo and the air was brisker.

“I believe I know where Peter is,” I said, digging the folded map out of my backpack and handing it to him.

He threw away the cigarette butt and smoothed out the map. His eyes scanned it and took in the cross over the name of Portbou.

“Who gave this to you?” he enquired, softly.

I explained about the package and the boy who’d conveyed it.

“I suppose you’ll want to leave for Spain soon,” I said, “And the Riviera is a good way to get there.”

I wasn’t looking at him and I’d made sure to keep my distance from his body.

“I told you I’m not going anywhere yet,” he replied, “If Peter is in Spain, it means that he’s made it to safety. You and your father, on the other hand---”

“We don’t need your charity,” I spat. “Go and be done with it.”

Oliver swore. I’d never heard him do that outside of bed.

“You’re such a fucking handful, Elio Perlman,” he said, gritting his teeth. He was shaking his head like he couldn’t believe what he was about to say. When he did, his voice was a whispered hiss, “I had my tongue up your ass only a few hours ago and you are behaving like you can’t stand the sight of me. If you are regretting what happened, just fucking say it. You wouldn’t be the first who pretends not to be disgusted by me only to show their true colours later.”

I debated whether to scream at him or walk away from him, but when faced with his stupidly handsome face and his sweat-soaked body, I opted for the path of least resistance: I yanked him to me and kissed him.

***

I didn’t resist him because I couldn’t, not when I wanted it as much as he did if not more; but we were out in the open and could be seen by anyone walking through the fields.

“Stop,” I said, drawing away from his grasp, “We can’t. I don’t want to cause you any trouble.”

His fingers were clutching the front of my shirt and he was frowning.

“You’re right,” he said, as he let me go, “We should be more careful.”

It was clear that he loathed the restrictions placed on his behaviour and I fully understood his frustration.

“And I haven’t tried to organise your life for you,” I said. “But the kids will have to go and we can’t just trust random strangers, not when lives are at stake.”

He was still tense but he’d let go of me. I smoothed down the crumpled fabric and brushed a hand through my hair. His eyes followed my gestures and settled on my upper chest. I did up the buttons; he smirked and looked away.

“I bloody hate this,” he hissed, “Nothing makes sense anymore.”

“War is a form of madness,” I concurred.

“I used to admire Le Corbusier,” he glanced at me and I nodded, yes, I knew the famous architect, “Only to find out that he hates Jews. For all I know, he might be glad to see those two kids sent to die. Can I condone this and still respect his artistry? I don’t think I can. Can you?”

I wasn’t sure what he was asking of me, but I tried to be honest.

“In time, the artistry will survive and the man himself will be forgotten,” I said. “But in the present, in the here and now, no, I cannot condone it. I’d rather have Julien and Jacob than any number of magnificent buildings.”

Elio took my hand in his. “They are so small and vulnerable.”

So are you, I wanted to say, but he’d have resented me and he’d have been right. I knew he wasn’t a boy, but I couldn’t help being worried. Now that it seemed certain that Peter had been rescued, I didn’t want to risk losing Elio.

I had been worried sick for Peter and I sensed that parting from Elio would be worse. I didn’t wish to analyse the reasons of this belief, certain that they would become apparent soon.

At dinner, Samuel had a surprise announcement.

“I’m going away for a few days,” he said.

Elio gaped, his thick eyebrows comically arched.

“Have you lost your mind?” he said. “They may have put you on a list already and what if they arrest you; how will I find you?”

“I won’t go by train,” he said. “I’ll cycle and stay away from the main roads.”

Elio’s incredulity turned to scorn.

“You are no longer young and it’s getting cold,” he said, “It might rain and you could fall and injure yourself. If you really insist on going, at least let me drive you.”

I was soon to find out that Samuel was as stubborn as his son: once his mind was made up, it was hard to change it.

“I can take care of myself,” he replied. “I may not be twenty but I am not decrepit yet.”

“Is it alright to ask where you are going?”

“Visiting a friend,” was the clipped answer.

“Do I know this _friend_?”

His father gave him a wry smile. “Do I know all your _friends_?”

Elio uttered a long sigh. “It’s not that I want to interfere in your private business, but these aren’t normal circumstances.”

“I have been cooped up in here long enough,” the Professor remarked. “You were right when you said that the situation is about to get worse and I’d rather go now when I still have the freedom to do so.”

I found Elio in our room, pacing to and fro like a soul in torment.

“I can’t believe he’d risk his life for--- whatever it is that he’s going to do with this _friend_ of his.”

“He must have his reasons.”

Elio emitted a derisive snort. “A roll in the hay is not a good enough reason to get arrested and deported.”

I stayed silent.

“Maybe it’s our fault,” he said. “He knows what we are up to and that gave him ideas.”

“Are you listening to yourself?” I stifled a laugh. “As much as he loves you, he still has a right to live not just survive.”

“Surviving seems pretty good to me at the moment,” he argued.

“Liar,” I said. “If that were the case, you wouldn’t be with the Maquis.”

“Why are you taking his side against me?” He came up to me and stared into my face with a belligerent expression.

“Because you are being unreasonable,” I replied, holding his gaze. “First, you wanted him to be more active and now you resent him for doing precisely that.”

He muttered something under his breath then seemed to turn away but instead lunged at me and pushed his tongue into my mouth. I gave in to him and lost myself in the biting insistence of his kisses.

“What was that for?” I rasped, when we came up for air.

“To shut you up,” he replied, with a feline smile.


	23. Alone

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Elio is being a brat.... but what's new?
> 
> Smut....again, what's new?
> 
> Oliver's POV/Elio's POV

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Reminder: Luke Morris is Oliver's London friend.

We lay in bed kissing but Elio’s heart wasn’t in it.

“Are you worried about your father?”

He looked at me and bit his lips.

“I’ll get up early tomorrow morning and try to dissuade him,” he replied. “Probably won’t change his mind, but better to have tried and failed---”

“You don’t talk to him about your work for the Maquis,” I remarked.”Surely he's entitled to have his secrets too.”

“Evidently,” he sniffed, “And so have you. Who are these friends in high places Limoges warned me about?”

I thought of Luke Morris, but he didn’t strike me as someone the French resistance would have bothered with.

“Maybe Peter has made contact with someone important,” I said. “Who’s working at the Spanish border, any idea?”

“People come and go, it’s hard to tell. And I don’t want to ask too many questions.”

He spread his fingers on my hip.

“What about your French acquaintances?” he insisted.

I remembered what Samuel had told me about Florence Gould, the socialite I’d used to know when – as a child – she was called Lacaze. I told Elio about her, without mentioning her brother Armand.

“She has property in the South of France,” he said. “How well do you know her?”

I sniggered, “Not well enough, considering I had no idea she’d married a millionaire.”

“You lost touch, but were you close at the time?”

I hesitated, parsing the memories of my life in Poitiers.

“She had a _passion _for you,” he smirked. “That’s why you are being so coy. I can almost see it: you, lounging around half-naked reading Kierkegaard and she, making a show of ignoring you, feigning to be fast asleep in the afternoon sunshine.”

“I wasn’t reading philosophy when I was a kid,” I said, laughing. “And she was older than me, which at that age is a fatal flaw.”

“Didn’t you like her?”

“I didn’t dislike her as much as fear her.”

Elio sat up, stiffly. “Why, what did she do?”

“She didn’t do anything,” I reassured him. “She was always very kind and polite to a fault. But she had this gaze – direct and piercing – that seemed to see right through me.”

“What was there to see? What terrible sins were you hiding at that tender age?”

I had never said this before to anyone.

“She had a brother,” I said, “His name was Armand.”

Elio’s eyes narrowed and I felt compelled to explain myself.

“We were always together,” I recounted. “He was a bright kid, but he didn’t use to play like a boy. He preferred to invent stories and in the summer we would be outside, in this magical world he’d created.”

“And you were captivated by him,” Elio suggested.

I nodded. “Yes, I thought he was the most brilliant creature I’d ever met. I was afraid he’d get tired of me and drop me in favour of someone less dull.”

“Did he?”

“No, I was the one who had to leave, when Mother moved to England.”

“You must have been sad.”

I turned to gaze at Elio’s profile, the sharp lines of his jaw and nose, the softness of his lips. “Yes, I was.”

“And the sister?”

“It may sound stupid, but I think she was relieved. She was always telling people that his brother and I were attached at the hip. It made me feel uneasy, the way she said it.”

“Did she suspect there may have been, you know---”

“We weren’t even ten years old!” I protested.

Elio rolled his eyes at me. “You are so English,” he huffed. “Children have sexual urges. They are quite normal and shouldn’t be treated with horror.”

“We didn’t do anything of the sort,” I insisted. “We were simply very fond of each other.”

He climbed on top of me and sat on my thighs.

“You can tell me,” he said, stroking my cheekbone with his knuckles. “I won’t ever judge you.”

I closed my eyes and drew a deep breath. The heat of an old, well-known shame flooded my neck and my face.

“It was then that you had the first hints about your preferences,” he murmured.

It had been very confusing back then, made worse by Florence’s eloquent stares and by my mother’s disinterest.

“He was very pretty,” I replied, “Dark auburn hair, green eyes, fine features.”

“You have a type,” he mocked, as he leaned down to brush his lips against mine.

“I don’t,” I argued, “I meant to say that he was objectively beautiful: anyone would have found him so, male or female.”

“And his sister wasn’t as pretty.”

“No, I mean, yes, she was.” I stammered.

“Yet you weren’t interested in her.”

“You are giving me the third degree.”

“I want you to say it out loud.”

“What, that I was terrified that I might prefer boys rather than girls: is this what you want to hear?” I grabbed Elio’s forearms and pulled until he lost his balance and rolled to the side.

“I’m sorry,” he said in a muffled whisper.

I got out of bed and, before he could follow me, padded out of the room, clicking it shut with a soft snick.

***

That night I didn’t sleep and at sunrise I was downstairs waiting for Papa.

Mariette shuffled out of the kitchen, carrying a pot of coffee and one cup.

“Could I have some too?” I asked, stifling a yawn.

“This is for you,” she replied, “Your father has left already.”

“What, when? It’s barely gone six,” I remonstrated, as though it were Mariette’s fault.

“He left at night,” she explained. “Travelling during the day is more dangerous, he said.”

“You could have warned me.”

“He made me promise I wouldn’t.”

“Did he tell you were he was going?”

She shook her head. “I have to go feed the chickens," she said. “When I am back, I’ll prepare breakfast. Are you staying?”

I doubted Oliver wanted to see me after what had occurred between us.

“I wish I could, but I have to go back,” I replied. “I only stayed in order to convince that stubborn old goat to change his mind.”

“You shouldn’t disrespect your father like that,” she chided. “Monsieur Olivier would say the same if he were here.”

“Well, he’s not here, is he?” I said, swearing when the coffee scolded my tongue.

She eyed me with a puzzled expression.

“He left a note for you.”

Mariette fished out a folded piece of paper from the pocket of her apron. For a moment, I’d thought it was from Oliver until I recognised by father’s handwriting.

She had gone out when I started reading.

“I won’t do it,” I mumbled to myself while I cycled to Lavaurette.

In his note, Papa had suggested I stayed at Le Domaine while he was away. The last thing I needed was to be closer to Oliver since we seemed to rub each other the wrong way most of the time.

Everything was going to hell, I reflected: first Peter and now this mysterious Armand, who might reappear out of the past and bewitch Oliver all over again.

“As if the bloody war wasn’t enough,” I went on muttering. And to think that I’d been satisfied with my situation not so long ago; that I’d felt alive because I was doing something for my country and risking my skin to help the cause of justice. After that, Oliver had arrived and had ruined everything.

“I fucking hate him,” I shouted, upsetting two large blackbirds that had been pecking at the grass.

I made up my mind to ignore him, which would be easier with Papa out of the picture and the near-certainty that Peter was alive and well in Spain or on his way back to England.

“Monsieur Armand on the line,” said Juliette’s voice. I thought I discerned a tinge of amusement in her tone, but it may have been my annoyance with Oliver’s disturbing me at work.

“What,” I replied, once she’d put him through.

“Good morning to you too,” he said.

“It’s past midday.”

He laughed.

“Will you be coming over later?”

“Why, do you have any plans?” I was getting angrier by the second.

“I wanted to know if I had to cook dinner for two.”

“What have you done with Mariette?”

Oliver laughed some more. “I gave her the evening off, for a change.”

“I’m busy,” I barked. “I’m afraid you’ll have to manage on your own.”

I slammed the receiver down and felt immensely satisfied with myself.

It lasted about five minutes.

I sneaked in as quietly as possible, but when I found the house shrouded in peaceful darkness, I was seized by irrational fear. I switched on the lamp in the hall and felt like a character in an Edgar Allan Poe story; all I was missing was a billowy white shirt and a pair of breeches. The telltale heart, I sneered at my temporary insanity and shook a cigarette out of the packet on the side table.

I was smoking and sitting cross-legged on the floor when I heard someone’s – Oliver’s – steps approach. He was walking down the staircase, barefoot.

“Elio,” he called, but I didn’t reply.

“What are you doing?” he asked, when he entered the ring of light cast by the lamp.

“What does it look like I’m doing?”

Without so much as a sigh, he dropped down next to me, pinching my cigarette.

“I shouldn’t have left,” he said, “You were being an ass but I should have told you as much instead of running away.”

“We do that a lot,” I remarked. “Maybe there’s a reason.”

He blew out a cloud of smoke.

“I’d never told a soul,” he said. “And I’m not used to people pushing me like you do.”

“I could stop if that’s what you want.”

I shuddered, feeling cold all of a sudden.

“I didn’t say that,” he murmured. “I wanted you to come after me.”

“Did you,” I husked, and reached out to caress the long line of his pyjama-clad thigh.

“Hmm,” was his reply, and a tremor went through him as I edged closer to his crotch.

I removed the cigarette from his mouth and replaced it with my lips, with my tongue. There was barely time to get rid of the stub and then I was crawling all over him, ass grinding against the bulge in his pants and hand searching for warm skin and solid muscle.

“Want to go upstairs?” he asked, as he unbuttoned my shirt.

“Later,” I replied, moaning loudly when his nails grazed my nipples. I yanked his head down and he nibbled at my neck, licking wetly at my Adam’s apple. I arched my back, giving him access to my naked torso. He nuzzled my collarbones then I felt his hot breath on my armpit. For a moment, dazed by lust, I didn’t understand what he wanted; the cuffs of my shirt were still trapping my wrists but I raised my arm to the side and Oliver buried his face in the sweaty patch of hair, lapping at it with the broad of his tongue. On a knife edge between surprise and desperation, I scratched the nape of his neck, dragging my fingernails down his still-clothed back, willing to tear the worn cotton to strips.

“Fucking hell,” I whimpered, and his chuckle reverberated inside my ribcage.

“You can laugh,” I rasped, “But if you don’t get me off in the next minute, I will never forgive you.”

When he looked up at me, his face was flushed red and his lips slick with spit.

“It’ll take longer than a minute,” he said, and cut off my remonstrations by taking my mouth in a deep biting kiss. I indulged him for a while, relishing the scrape of his stubble against my chin, wanting him to mark me for eternity; soon though, I yearned to have more of him, to see whether he was as hard and wet and ready as I was. I slid off him and went for the waistband of his bottoms, shoving it down ungracefully. His prick bounced up into my hand and I was half-mad with desire.

I didn’t hear what he was saying, only scraps of “please, god,” and “yes, fuck, yes”; I smeared the juice over the swollen head of his dick and with a moan, went down on him until I had tears in my eyes.


	24. Love

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Elio gets there, at last....
> 
> Oliver's POV / Elio's POV

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> The 'spy' mentioned is Rose Valland who worked at the Jeu de Paume during the war and who saved loads of paintings by pretending not to understand German while at the same time tipping the Resistance. She was in her 40s and considered a "frumpy spinster". Beware of those, they BITE.

“You are going to laugh,” Elio said.

With some difficulty, we had succeeded in climbing the stairs and reaching our room. We’d dropped our clothes on the floor and slid into bed then drifted off with the contentment of sated desire. I awoke to his open, frank gaze and asked him what the matter was.

“And what if I do,” I argued. “Laughter is good.”

He scrunched his nose. “Not in this case, it wouldn’t be.”

“Okay then,” I said, pressing a fingertip to the wrinkle between his eyebrows. “I solemnly promise that I won’t so much as crack a smile.”

He thought about it for a while, at the end of which he shook his head.

“The moment is over,” he said, in a commiserating tone. “I feel silly now.”

“You know the rule,” I reminded him. “You can tell me anything you like in here.”

Elio sat up and scratched the back of his head.

“I’m such a mess,” he avowed. “Tell me more about Armand.”

I knew he only wanted to change subjects, but it was also a challenge that he was daring me to meet.

Our legs were tangled together and I was hugging his waist.

“He was my first real friend,” I replied, thumbing along the blade of Elio’s hip. “It was intense, at least on my part. I’m not sure if it was the same for him.”

“He was the leader and you were the disciple.”

“More like the pied-piper,” I smiled. “And I was the mouse.”

“A very large mouse,” he mocked. “You must have been a tall kid.”

“A big fat lump, that’s what I was.”

Elio’s eyes widened. “I don’t believe you.”

“I wish I had pictures to show you, but there aren’t many even back home. Mother was not interested in mementos of her oversized progeny.”

“How horrid,” he scowled.

“Oh, I don’t mind,” I said, truthfully. “That saved me from a many a dull chore, such as posing for family portraits.”

“Photograph or painting?”

“Mostly the former, but the latter too, at least once,” I replied, recalling the tedious affair with a shudder.

“In any case, you showed her,” he said, with an air of great satisfaction, “Bona-fide Adonis with no apparent flaws.”

“Aside from a faulty ticker,” I argued, grinning up at him.

Elio’s face darkened. “Fuck, I forgot about that,” he murmured.

“Good, that’s what I want you to keep doing. It’s nothing, as long as I don’t get too highly strung.”

“And this,” he gestured between us, “Won’t make it worse?”

I edged closer and kissed his arm. “Quite the opposite,” I replied.

He clicked his tongue and ruffled my hair. “You’d say that.”

“But it’s true,” I protested. “Being with you like this is relaxing.”

Elio feigned a pout. “Is this what I get for sucking you so well that you couldn’t stand straight?”

“I thought it was a compliment. And I returned the favour, didn’t I?”

He brought a hand to his crotch and hummed. “With interest,” he said. I had barely recovered from my orgasm when I’d been on him like I’d been gagging for it, which I had. Elio had been close already and it hadn’t taken long before I got a mouthful of bitter ejaculate, which I could still taste at the back of my throat.

I ran a hand up his chest and curled it around his throat, without exerting pressure.

“You have the most beautiful neck,” I said, “I hope you have dozens of photographs of it.”

He giggled. “_That_ would be silly.”

I hauled him down so that I could nuzzle his throat. “Beautiful,” I muttered, in between nips and kisses. He laughed and stroked my hair.

When I looked into his eyes, they were bright with amusement.

“So tell me what you wanted to say before,” I said, admiring the flecks of honey and hazel in his irises.

“Okay,” he replied, curving his lips in that half-smile I knew so well. “I have always wondered,” he started but immediately halted and shook his head. “No, I have to try it without talking of it. That’s always been the problem.”

“What problem?” I asked, mystified.

“Just let me, alright?”

He disentangled from me and crawled to the end of the bed taking the covers with him. I was about to complain but his single-minded expression dissuaded me.

Without much ado, he grabbed one of my feet and, ducking his head, he licked the underside of my big toe. It wasn’t a timid kitten-lick, but a slick lap of tongue, wet and pressing. I didn’t laugh; I could hardly swallow let alone speak. Elio’s gaze was fixed on mine; he’d seen the effect he’d had on me and was no longer embarrassed. One by one, he took my toes inside his mouth and sucked on them; his eyes stayed latched on mine and by the end of that treatment, my cock was flat against my belly. He was as hard and with a groan, he pressed my over-stimulated foot to his erection.

“Yes?” he rasped, grinding against the arch.

“Hmm,” I nodded, starting to pull at my prick.

***

The problem was talking about it.

I had wanted to do this for a long time, but every time I had tried to put it into words, it had seemed stupid and childish. But to tell the whole truth, the moment I had kneeled down and taken a hold of a man’s foot, the situation had always taken a turn for the ludicrous so I’d given up before even trying.

Oliver was different. More than that: Oliver _liked_ it. He liked it so much that he had his fist around his prick as soon as I was done licking his toes; and I was so aroused by the entire business that I ended up rutting against his foot, shooting all over it and licking it clean while moaning like a whore. Oliver came as I was doing that, shouting my name, over and over again.

“Thanks for not laughing,” I said, later.

He was still panting a little, and his chest hair was matted with sweat. I wanted to lick that too, but I was too exhausted; I nosed at it and sighed with pleasure.

“That wasn’t,” he gasped, wiped his mouth on the back of his hand. “That was something else.”

“You see why I’d rather not talk about it.”

He pawed at my back with fingers still sticky from his come; I pushed into his touch, greedy for it.

“No one had ever done that to me before,” he admitted. “I’d not imagined---”

“But you enjoyed it.”

He snorted. “I went cross-eyed for a moment.”

“And as for the rest of you,” I enquired, stroking the inside of his thigh.

“I wouldn’t want to be vulgar.”

“Indulge me,” I said, administering soft bites to the meat of his upper torso.

“You drained me,” he said, “There’s not a single drop left.”

I laughed into his skin. “Poor darling,” I drawled, “How will you cope with this vampire sucking you dry?”

“By hoping it’s mutual.”

I rested my chin on his sternum and looked up at him: he was flushed and messy-haired. A sudden wave of feeling hit me hard and made my breath catch in my throat. _I love you_, _Oliver_, I thought. I loved him and there was nothing I wouldn’t do for him, except for telling him. That would never do, not while he had other claims to his affections.

“Well, you know how it is,” I replied, smiling to hide my emotion. “I’m younger so I have more fuel in the tank.”

“Shut up,” he said, smiling back. “It’s only four years.”

“Every minute counts.”

He cupped his hands around my cheeks and stroked my jaw.

“Speaking of this,” he whispered, “I’d like you to stay with me tonight.”

My throat and mouth went dry.

“This bed is too small,” I began to argue.

“In my room,” he replied, “I slept in your bed now it’s your turn.”

“I wasn’t aware we were taking turns,” I joked, but he was dead serious.

“Will you?” he insisted, and I nodded my head, slowly.

That was bad, possibly fatal, but I couldn’t say no.

The boat-bed was as comfortable as I remembered, and the Watteau reproduction as unbearably ugly.

“You don’t like it,” Oliver said, noticing my grimace.

“It’s ghastly,” I replied, “I loathe Rococo and its frills.”

“Is that why it’s relegated to the Tower,” he said, biting his smiling lips. “Like what we used to do to traitors?”

“Off with Watteau’s head, that sort of thing?”

He hugged me from behind and I felt him nod.

“I suppose someone must have liked it,” he considered. “The frame looks expensive.”

“I would love to have seen those paintings we helped retrieve,” I said. “You know what I’ve heard? That there’s a spy inside one of the museums; this person pretends not to understand German and tips off the Maquis every time a shipment is leaving France.”

“That’s incredibly brave.”

“Imagine if they invaded your country and stole the paintings from the National Gallery.”

Oliver shivered. “They have been packed away,” he said, “And Myra Hess plays the piano there at lunchtime. I supposed you’ve heard of her.”

“Of course I have, you philistine,” I replied. “At least she’d doing something she can be proud of, unlike some of her colleagues.”

Oliver guided me to the bed and we both sat down. He took my hand and traced the lines on my palm.

“It’s a real pity you’ve given up playing,” he said.

“I have better things to do.”

He observed my fingers and I noted how much longer his were, and how erotic the contrast was.

“You could play too,” I remarked, “You have the perfect span for a keyboard.”

“And not the least talent for it,” he said, lacing our fingers together. “Believe me, I did try but I was hopeless.”

“There’s always hope.”

“I’m too honest to try the usual line.”

He caught my puzzled look and smiled, “The ‘I only need the right teacher’ line.”

“I wouldn’t have fallen for it,” I said, not sure that it was true.

Oliver let himself fall back onto the mattress and since our hands were joined, I went down with him.

“I wish I’d met you before all of this happened,” he murmured, as if to himself, “In Paris, maybe, while you were strolling through Montmartre.”

“Before you met Peter, you mean,” I said, picking at the scab like the masochist I was. “But you have met him and you will go back to him when this is over.”

“Like you will go back to playing the piano,” he replied.

“It’s not the same thing,” I argued, removing my hand from his.

“No, it’s not,” he agreed. “It’s like adding a substance to another: once it’s done and the two are mixed, you cannot go back to what you had at the start.”

I turned to look at him. “When is the start?”

He grinned. “You sound like your father.”

“Don’t mention him while I’m in bed with you,” I groused.

Oliver laughed and I grabbed a pillow and threw it at his face. We fought for a while and finally ended up naked and entwined, sharing lazy kisses and caresses.

We’d have fallen asleep like that if I hadn’t needed the bathroom.

“I’m going for a piss,” I said, rolling out of bed like a graceless drunk.

“Coming with you,” he replied, mid-yawn. “If you don’t mind, that is.”

I blinked down at him. “Why would I mind?”

“No reason,” he answered. “Put a shirt on.”

“There’s no one around.”

He plucked a shirt from the back of a chair and wrapped it around me. It smelled of him. I slid it on and watched as he put on his pyjama pants. His prick was big even when soft and I wanted to kiss it and press my cheek to it. I had to look away in order to rein in the impulse to do just that. Oliver misunderstood my reaction and sniggered. “I told you that you emptied me,” he mocked.

“We’ll see about that,” I replied and followed him out.


	25. Ride

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> First of all: sorry for the delay but I was in bed with the flu and with only enough energy for reading...
> 
> This chapter is all about fluff, because it's almost Xmas and we deserve it!
> 
> I promise the next chapter will be soon because I feel much better now.
> 
> Elio's POV/Oliver's POV

It was like an impromptu holiday, including the unseasonably hot weather.

I’d decided to take time off work, since the latter was sluggish anyway, due to the slowing down of the economy and the fear of an impending invasion.

Madame Darel was expecting a letter from the South of France, after which she’d depart with the children, probably accompanied by Oliver. It was the most practical solution and I was slowly coming to terms with it.

As for Oliver, he’d given up on his grape-harvest idea and was helping Mariette in the kitchen, to the woman’s great delight.

“I didn’t know you could cook,” I said, sampling his roast chicken with rosemary.

“Not really,” he replied, sheepishly, “But I can manage the simpler dishes, or at least I think so. Peter---” He stopped, but I knew what he’d meant.

“Peter thought you were a lousy cook,” I concluded for him.

“Sorry, I shouldn’t have brought him up.”

“Well, he was wrong,” I said. “This is quite decent.”

“Great praise, coming from a Frenchman,” he smiled.

“At least you didn’t smother it in one of your ghastly sauces.”

“Like you aren’t fond of your creamy concoctions,” he argued.

I leered at him and he burst out laughing.

“Not that again,” he said, and then in a murmur, “You are a real pervert.”

“Not my fault that you walked right into that one,” I remarked, smugly.

We had spent the night together again, sleeping in my room this time. I was getting used to having him next to me, despite his quiet snoring and his tendency to behave like a human octopus. I woke him up with the pretext of shrugging him off me and ended up with his cock in my mouth, which was maybe my original intention. Scratch the ‘maybe’. He returned the favour and went one better, sticking his tongue up inside me and fingering me until I couldn’t think coherently.

“You like that,” I’d asked, while we were recovering our breath.

He’d nodded and I’d noticed that the shame had gone, that he was proud to admit to what gave him pleasure. That meant he might do it to other men but I didn’t want to dwell on that. He was mine for the time being and that’s all that mattered.

October was the time of the year when we usually stocked up for the winter and we tried to uphold the tradition despite the fact that the shops were half empty and that coupons were as precious as gold. Oliver had money, which was also a rare commodity, and intended to spend it regardless of my protestations.

Instead of the van I usually borrowed from the butcher, and because the weather was mild, I suggested we take the horse-driven cart that our closest neighbours lent us in exchange for eggs and jam.

“You can ride a horse,” I said, matter-of-fact, once the bargain had been struck and the mare taken out of her stable.

“You are lighter and smaller,” he replied, as he caressed the horse’s mane, “And I bet you are very good with animals.”

“But you can ride,” I insisted. “You said you could.”

He sighed. “Just say what you mean, Elio,” he smiled. “It’ll save us time.”

“Why do you think I chose this over the van?”

“Do I need to go and change into something special, like a uniform of some sort?”

I glared at him. “Don’t be an ass,” I said.

“About that,” he quipped, and turned his head to inspect his posterior. “It’ll get sore; it’s been a while and I was never much of an equestrian, but I recall the chafing and muscle strain quite vividly.”

He must have read me even as I tried on my poker face.

“I see,” he murmured. “All part of the plan.”

I didn’t deny it.

“I don’t have a problem with that,” he said, and before I could regain my bearings, he’d straddled the mare, holding tightly on the reins. “Did you take Mariette’s list?” he enquired, looking down at me like some knight out of an Arthurian poem. I patted the pocket of my leather jacket and nodded. Words escaped me.

I spent the best part of the short journey to Lavaurette staring at Oliver’s back and at the way his ass bounced and his thighs flexed. He’d stopped talking to me when he realised that I was answering in grunts and monosyllables. My crotch was troubling me since it refused to listen to reason.

My arousal was dampened by the sight of the gendarmes marching up and down the piazza.

“What are they doing?” Oliver asked.

An old woman was sweeping the front steps of her house and muttering at that display of military discipline.

“They are preparing to show off to the Germans,” she said, a grimace distorting her lips. “And they tell us we are free.” She shook her head and went back inside.

We were exiting the hardware store when I heard a well-known voice.

“Solange was right,” Juliette said, eyeing Oliver with her gimlet stare. “We spoke on the telephone,” she went on. “Monsieur Armand isn’t it? I’m Juliette Bobotte, but I am sure you’ve heard about me.”

Oliver smiled and shook her hand. “Please call me Olivier,” he said.

“Oh, I will,” she replied. “But I doubt we’ll meet any time soon. Perlman is a secretive man. Do you happen to know his Parisian fiancée?”

“I never had the pleasure,” he said, promptly.

“That makes two of us,” she said. “Doing some shopping?”

I explained the reason of our visit to Lavaurette and the entire time she kept her gaze fixed on Oliver. She wasn’t ogling as much as studying him.

“Come to dinner,” she offered. “You must be tired and I have enough stew for three.”

“Maybe another time,” I replied. “We promised to return the horse and cart before evening.”

I shouldn’t have said that: she immediately pounced on it.

“You on a horse,” she snorted. “And why would that be?”

Oliver cleared his throat. “I am the rider,” he said.

Her eyebrows shot up. “That must be a sight for sore eyes,” she exclaimed and this time she was looking at me. “Isn’t he?” she enquired.

“I suppose,” I replied, trying to appear indifferent.

She clicked her tongue in mock-disbelief. “There’s no suppose about it,” she said. “But you must be in a hurry so I better let you go. I insist you come to dinner one of these evenings. You need feeding up. And you too,” she patted Oliver’s arm. “Tall and big as you are, you could do with a bit more meat on you.”

He laughed and thanked her, while I gaped, unable to hide my annoyance.

***

“The insolence,” Elio spat out, as soon we left Lavaurette. “It wasn’t enough that she had her eyes on you all the time, she had to touch you too!”

“She didn’t exactly touch me,” I argued, “It was more of a friendly pat. But it’s cute that you are jealous. You did mention that I’d be her type if I were available. Which I am not,” I added.

“You are everyone’s type,” he groused. “Like the Renaissance.”

“What?”

I turned my head but the horse didn’t approve so I resumed my previous stance.

“Have you ever met someone who dislikes the Renaissance? You haven’t because no such person exists. And if they did, they’d be lying, just to stand out from the mass.”

“I wouldn’t be my type,” I argued.

“That’s because you have horrid taste,” he declared.

“Seeing that I like you, let me beg to differ; in any case, Juliette was only being polite.”

“Polite,” he scoffed. “She couldn’t care less about that. Next time she’ll grab your backside to make sure there’s no stuffing.”

“Why would there be stuffing?”

“There could be,” he muttered, “That’s all she needs: a pretext.”

“We’ll have to go back to fetch those fish tins,” I said, to change the subject. “They shouldn’t be too heavy; I’ll manage on my own.”

“You may be gone by then,” he replied. “With the kids, I mean.”

“We’ll see,” I said.

We rode the rest of the way in silence and only spoke again when it was time to unload our purchases. I went to return the horse and cart but Elio stayed at Le Domaine.

Like I’d predicted, my thighs and ass were sore.

“I’ll run you a bath,” Elio said, after dinner.

There were still no news of Samuel, but Mariette had been certain that he’d return the following day. Because of that, there was an air of ‘last days of vacation’. We went outside to smoke and admired the starlit sky.

“I wish we could be as peaceful as this,” I said, gesturing towards the countryside. “I’ll never understand why we are so determined to destroy it.”

“Thirst for power, greed, you know why,” he replied. “I’d rather not reflect on it, not now.”

He ran a hand down my back. “Watching you ride a horse has given me ideas,” he murmured.

I couldn’t repress a chuckle. “You don’t say.”

“Maybe it will have to wait until you feel better.”

I ruffled his hair. “I thought that was what you had in mind.” I bent down to whisper in his ear. “Make it hurt a little.”

He gasped and dropped his cigarette.

“What’s got into you?” he squeaked.

“Nothing,” I replied, “At least not yet.”

Elio rolled his eyes.

“Well, you asked for it,” I said, laughing.

I took one last drag and was ready to go upstairs.

Just as I was about to open the door, Elio curled his body around mine, his front plastered to my back. “I want it like this, if it’s alright for you,” he murmured.

It was more than alright. It was everything I wanted.

I had imagined we’d take a bath together, that Elio would massage my back and that one thing would lead to another, in a predictable succession of events.

Reality both confounded and exceeded my expectations.

It took a while to fill the tub and by the time it was full, we’d already started to argue.

“When I was in Paris, it was so easy to pick up a man and have my way with him,” he said, out of nowhere.

I was brushing my teeth, so I couldn’t reply. He took it as encouragement to continue.

“I wish I could turn back time and take you there with me,” he went on, a dreamy look in his eyes. “There was this one cabaret in Montmartre---” he sighed.

I spat out a mouthful of water. “You’d go there now, if you could, wouldn’t you?”

He dipped his hand in the water to check the temperature.

“That’s not what I meant,” he argued, furrowing his brow. “I wish we could go together so that I could show you where I’ve been happy.”

“And maybe pick up a man each and take them home with us,” I snapped.

“If you like,” he said, icily.

“Not my sort of thing at all. English, remember? I’m sorry to disappoint you.”

“So you’ve never been to a club,” he said, “What about the famous one at the Ritz? Even I have heard about that.”

I recalled the nights Peter and I had spent at the Pink Sink, listening to jazz and drinking cocktails.

“I didn’t go alone.”

“You were with Peter,” he said. “I didn’t have a Peter, so I went on my own or with friends. There’s no big difference. You are not better than me.”

“I never said I was better, only that I don’t like to share.”

He strode up to me.

“Not good enough for you but fine for me: that’s what you are implying.”

I didn’t wish to argue and would have gone to bed, but I needed the toilet.

I said as much and Elio let me pass, a sarcastic smirk on his lips.

We were used to this kind of intimacy but never while we were angry, so I looked at him pointedly, waiting for him to get out.

“I have had your prick down my throat,” he hissed. “No need to be coy.”

“Fine,” I said, and pulled down my pyjama pants. I could sense his gaze on me, but I was too upset to care. I was almost done when I felt his fingers prod a tender spot in my lower back. It hurt but it also made my dick swell.

“Fuck,” he murmured. “You are bruised.”

I cleaned up and flushed the toilet.

“Take your pants off,” he said, with a tone of command. I did as told, didn’t even hesitate.


	26. Mount

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Happy holidays my lovelies and happy birthday to one Timmy Chalamet who is 24 tomorrow!
> 
> This is THE chapter. 
> 
> Beware the smut, because there's plenty of it.
> 
> Oliver's POV

I had never felt so clean and yet so dirty.

Elio sponged my chest first.

“Bend down,” he said afterwards, and I did as told.

The water was warm and soothing but his touch wasn’t. He scrubbed across my shoulders and down my spine; when he got to my loins, he added the scratch of his nails. I moaned and grabbed the rim of the tub for leverage so that I could offer him more of my ass. He slid the sponge between my buttocks and the tip of his fingers skimmed my anus. I let it unfurl. Behind me, Elio sniggered.

“Eager are we?” he murmured.

I nodded.

“Words,” he said. “This is what we are doing tonight.”

His thumb dug into the spot behind my balls. I whined.

“Say what you want,” he rasped. “And don’t be shy. There’s no one else in here.”

My neck and face were on fire, but my hunger surpassed my shame.

“Finger me,” I croaked.

He breathed in my ear. “You want something up your ass?”

My prick swelled and surged up.

“Yes,” I nearly screamed.

He teased and petted the ring of muscle with the pad of his thumb and in the next breath he shoved the thick digit inside, all of it in one go.

“Oh god,” I whined.

“Let’s get you all clean for me,” he said, and started pumping his finger in and out. Every couple of thrusts he’d wiggle it inside to loosen up the muscle. My dick had started to ooze and my balls throbbed.

It went on for an incalculable time and when I was about to lose my mind, Elio released me. He stood up and walked to the side of the bath, so that he could look me in the face.

“Finish washing,” he said, cupping the bulge in his pants. “I’ll wait for you in my room.”

I leaned back and my cock jumped up and slapped my belly. Elio licked his lips and closed his eyes.

“Don’t even think about that,” he warned in a low, menacing tone. “In fact, hands off your prick.”

“You too,” I bit back, staring pointedly at his crotch.

“Fair enough,” he said, silkily.

When he removed his hands, I saw the wet patch that smeared the front of his pants.

“Come closer,” I said, with a thick voice I hardly recognised.

He knew what I wanted to do and angled his body so that I could lick over the drenched fabric, pressing my tongue to the head of his cock.

“Fffuuccck,” he groaned, and I smiled as I sucked on the sodden cotton. When I released him, he swayed a little.

“I’m going to get you ready,” I murmured, “You better be naked when I get there.”

He stumbled out of the bathroom like a man in a stupor.

I didn’t hurry: not because I wasn’t eager to go to him but more as though I was testing my resilience. I washed carefully, each part of me coming into focus almost like a new creation. When I finally got out of the bath, I felt lighter, younger; still afraid, but not as likely to succumb to fear.

Bare-chested and with a towel wrapped around my waist, I padded towards Elio’s room. The door was ajar and when I pushed it open, I expected to find its occupant lazily spread out on the bed, smoking a cigarette and in command of the situation.

Instead, Elio was sitting on the bed, feet tapping on the floor and elbows on his knees; he was naked and as he straightened his back and parted his thigh, I saw his semi hard prick twitch.

“I wasn’t sure you’d come,” he murmured.

I smiled and strode to him, kneeling down between his legs. The towel had come untied so Elio peeled it off and threw it somewhere behind me. I wasn’t paying attention, lost as I already was to the sight and scent of his arousal.

“Just don’t make me come,” he said, softly.

I palmed the inside of his thighs and relished the tremor that snaked through his muscles.

“You are not that close,” I replied, but his prick had filled up, the glans ruddy and wet.

“I have been close since this afternoon.”

He hazarded a laugh, but it stuck in his throat as I licked the underside of shaft from the seam of his balls to the tip.

“What the fuck,” he cried out, grabbing a fistful of my hair. He didn’t pull it, not even when I sucked the head inside my mouth and swirled my tongue around it.

The scratch of his nails on my scalp was a welcome reminder of what waited for me, of the pleasure-pain that I was yearning for.

I did not let it go too far, conscious that I wouldn’t be able to stop if I let him gag my throat. It was like a messy wet kiss: only a prelude to the main act.

It was Elio who pulled me off him, yanking the hair at my nape. The string of spit linking my mouth to his cock made my dick dribble in sympathy.

He squeezed the base of his prick and grimaced. I did the same with mine and for a moment we looked at each other: his face was flushed and his lips were bitten red; his eyes were glassy and dark.

We wanted the same thing, I was sure of it.

I rose to my feet and helped him up. He glared at me. “Get on the bed,” he said, harshly.

I climbed on the bed and went down on my elbows and knees, my feet facing the side where Elio was standing.

“Look at you,” he husked.

His hand clasped the back of my thighs and a moment later his hot breath was on the crease of my ass, his tongue sliding in between its cheeks.

“Taste so good,” he muttered, and I barely time to prepare myself before he pressed his lips to my hole. My hips stuttered and bucked and I uttered a stream of moans and half-formed words. Elio licked and sucked me loose, and he would have fingered me again had I not begged him to stop.

“What?” he growled.

“You know fucking what,” I growled back.

He snorted. “Words, remember?”

Right - I thought - if that’s what you want. I was lightheaded with the desire to be fucked into oblivion.

“Put your cock in me,” I spoke without censure, “Fuck it into me, use me; do what you want to me.”

Elio was already uncapping the jar of ointment and slicking his prick with it, swearing as he did so.

“You drive me insane,” he said, nudging my hole with his slippery cockhead. I opened up to him, the muscle fluttering to invite him in. “Absolutely fucking insane,” he insisted, and pushed in to the hilt.

Despite the preparation, it hurt like hell.

Elio was big and he was putting his body weight behind his thrusts, one foot on the mattress and the other on the floor, his hands clutching my hips.

He was like an animal ready to mount and it was everything I’d ever wanted and dreamed of; what I’d never allowed myself to dream of.

I endured the pain, bore down into it, and soon it turned into a feeling that wasn’t yet pleasure but a desire to be split wide by Elio’s rutting, by the brutality of his thrusts.

“Sweet fuck,” he hissed, and drove in and out of me in short, sharp stabs.

I kept screaming ‘yes’ and ‘come on’ and he rammed into me like a speeding train.

The pleasure – blinding and obliterating all other sensations – came when he tugged at my hips and pulled me towards him. That way, he was fucking up into me and hitting my sensitive spot with unrelenting precision. My fist closed around my prick as Elio shouted, “I can’t, going to come, oh god, so hard, so hard---”

Inside me, his dick went harder and thicker and a moment later he shoved into me with a harsh cry and the warm splash of his ejaculate flooded my insides. I came while he was still emptying himself into me, caressing and kneading my buttocks and murmuring sweet nothings.

The room reeked of sex; it didn’t help that we’d cleaned up with my towel and that it lay on the floor sodden with bodily fluids.

“Best fuck of my life,” he said, nuzzling my neck and the sweaty patch behind my ear. “I can’t feel my dick, but it was worth it.”

I hummed in assent and stroked his back.

“I’ll be sore for days but I don’t care,” I replied.

“Your ass is a work of art and I feel honoured of having had a taste.”

I chuckled. “That was more than a taste,” I argued. “That was you gobbling it up and feasting on it.”

He groaned. “Keep saying things like that and you may get a repeat performance.”

“Not tonight you won’t. I want to be able to sit down without screaming in pain.”

I felt him smile against my throat.

“I’m not that huge,” he said.

“False modesty doesn’t suit you.”

He pretended to be hurt. “I thought you enjoyed a good hard fuck.”

“Now it’s your turn to shut up.”

“Like that, do we?”

I weaved my fingers through his curls and kissed his cheekbone.

“You know I do,” I replied. “I like everything when it comes to you.”

“Even my scrawny hairy legs?”

“Even the ridiculous scruff on your chin,” I said, touching the stray hairs in question.

“I forgot to shave,” he pouted.

“Too keen to get me on that horse weren’t you?”

“It had its appeal,” he replied, burying his face in the hollow of my throat.

I wanted to tell him things before it was too late; god only knew what the next weeks would bring; what hell would break loose.

“I’d never thought I could find this,” I said, “Whenever I’d imagined it, there was always a measure of shame involved. Like I’d have to beg to get it, and be made to feel like a deviant.”

He trailed soft kisses down my sternum.

“That’s criminal,” he muttered, his nose into my chest hair, “These men you’ve been with must be mad.”

“I thought I was the mad one.”

He crawled up my body and took my face in his hands. “You are perfect,” he whispered, and pressed his lips to mine. I slid my tongue into his mouth and we kissed, leisurely and deeply, for a long time, until sleep overtook us.

I woke up in the throes of a nightmare. Elio was already awake and he was gazing at me.

“Sorry,” I mumbled. “I didn’t mean to disturb you.”

He turned towards the nightstand and poured water into a glass.

“Drink this,” he said. I sat up and gulped the liquid down.

“What was that about?” he enquired.

I could hardly recall, but I knew that the dream had involved a separation and that Elio had been wrenched away from me. It hurt in ways I wasn’t prepared to face, not even in jest.

“I’m not going to the South of France with the kids,” I said. “Not unless you want me to."

He studied me in silence.

“There has to be another way,” I went on. “I don’t wish to find out you’ve been sent to a camp while I’m miles away and unable to prevent it.”

“You wouldn’t be able to prevent it here.”

“I’ll come with you in that case.”

He frowned. “You’ll do nothing of the sort.”

“You can’t tell me what to do,” I hissed. “Not when it’s a matter of life and death.”

“They won’t take you,” he spat. “They’ll find out you are a British spy and put you in a prison camp. They’ll treat you with respect while I’ll be sent to die.”

I wanted to slap him.

“No one is going anywhere,” I said, “Not until we have made plans.”

He smirked. “You could make your way to Spain,” he said. “I bet Peter is waiting for you. What are you waiting for?”

“We’ll go together,” I replied, “You, me and your dad. You’ll come with me to London. I’ll hide you in the country; no one will look for you there.”

He laughed; an unpleasant dry cackle.

“We’ll be in the country while you and Peter live it up in London: I don’t think so.”

“I’m not leaving you here,” I insisted.

“And why not,” he said, “Because you'd feel guilty? Why?” he goaded me.

I’d had enough of hiding.

“Because I love you, that’s why,” I shouted. “Because I am in love with you, stubborn fuck that you are.”


	27. Confession

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Enjoy the smut and the fluff because reality is about to bite.
> 
> Best wishes to all you lovelies and may the new decade be better than the ending of the present one...
> 
> Elio's POV/Oliver's POV (just a tiny bit at the end)

Oliver couldn’t be serious.

“You say that to all your men.”

It would have worked as a joke had I not been staring at him slack-jawed for far too long.

He scratched at the scruff on his neck and avoided my gaze. Not that I was too keen on meeting his either.

“I haven’t, actually,” he replied.

“What, not even to Peter?”

He stood up abruptly and strode to the open window. His bare ass seemed to glow in the shadows. I had to clutch the sheets in order to resist the temptation to grab it.

“I told myself that I was waiting for the right moment,” he murmured. “We were always on borrowed time, so I thought: why burden him with my feelings? When someone is risking their life for their country, why add more fuel to the fire?”

“And we are not on borrowed time?” I scoffed.

Oliver shook his head.

“That’s not the point,” he replied. “I’ve come to realise that all my reservations were pretexts. You don’t rationalise love: it’s either there or it isn’t. I was fond of him, loved him in a way, still do, but---”

“You are confusing sex with love.”

He chuckled.

“Of course you’d say that.”

“What’s that supposed to mean?”

“You told me you never spend time with any of your lovers,” he said. “You take them to bed and kick them out as soon as you are done.”

“It saves trouble.”

He sighed. “There’s my answer then.”

Before I could think of a repartee, Oliver had picked up his soiled towel and bunched it over his crotch. He turned his head towards me, “We’ll say no more about it. It won’t change the way I feel or what I intend to do, but I won’t _trouble_ you any longer.”

His hand was on the door when I sprang from the bed and ran to him. I didn’t touch him but made sure he couldn’t get out.

“Don’t go,” I said. “First listen to what I have to say.”

“You already said plenty.”

His broad back was too tempting: I leaned into it, pressing my cheek between his shoulder-blades. I could hear the beat of his heart and smell the clean sweat from his armpits. I wanted to lick him there, chasing the essence of him.

“Come back to bed,” I whispered.

He hesitated a while then allowed me to lead him back to my messy bed. We lay down and I rested my head on his chest; he took my hand and laced our fingers together.

“You don’t have to placate me,” he said. “If it’s sex that you want, I’m not going to refuse. In case you haven’t noticed, I enjoy it very much.”

I laughed. “I’m not that blind.”

“We can do this for as long as you like and when you get bored---”

I pinched his side and he flinched.

“Stop saying stuff like that.”

“You told me that’s how you operate.”

“No one can get tired of you.”

“It’s been known to happen,” he said, with more than a hint of bitterness. “My childhood was rife with such instances.”

“You must have been surrounded by idiots.”

He chortled. “Maybe I was,” he replied. He stroked the inside of my wrist with his thumb and murmured, “Where were you in my childhood, Elio?”

Suddenly, my eyes filled with tears. I let them spill all over his skin until I was sobbing like a baby. He comforted me, caressing my face and whispering soothing words. When the worst of it was over, I sat up and looked at him: even dishevelled and dirty, he was the most beautiful creature I’d ever seen.

“I wish I’d been there,” I said. “I’d never let anyone hurt you.”

He smiled and his teeth flashed in the dark.

“The Perlman Terror,” he mocked.

“I can be a right pain in the ass.”

“My backside agrees.”

I pouted and he burst into laughter. I bit his shoulder and he pulled my hair. I knew where this was going: as soon as we started wrestling, we’d get a hankering for more intimate contact. I was hard in no time and Oliver was right there with me.

“I want to ride you,” I rasped into his hear; his cock leapt into my hand and I gave it a long slow rub. His back arched off the bed and I badly wanted to wank him to orgasm. I petted his balls and kissed a trail between his navel and his hipbone: the muscles tensed beneath my lips and his dick got wet.

“Stop or I’ll come,” he groaned.

It was very tempting, but I was desperate to have him inside me. I quickly fingered myself under his half-mast, hungry gaze and slicked his prick until it was hot and slippery.

Oliver had shut his eyes and didn’t see that I was about to sit on his cock. His surprise would have been amusing had I not been going mad with pleasure.

“Oh fuck,” he moaned, his fingers bruising my hips.

I ignored his attempts at slowing things down and impaled myself on him, swallowing the length of his cock inside me. Oliver let out a string of expletives while I was speechless with pain; it burned and ached and I was too full, almost as though my groin was going to explode from the pressure. I took Oliver’s hand and placed it on my lower belly; he massaged it and as he did so, my body started to accommodate the sudden intrusion. I circled my hips then swayed side to side and Oliver’s whole body trembled.

“Like this?” I husked. He nodded, biting his lips, so I did it again, but adding a quick thrust that made him cry out my name. The burn was morphing into something more complex, like pouring alcohol onto a wound: first the searing pain then a throbbing sensation that borders on pleasure. It was addictive and so were Oliver’s reactions: his flushed skin, his filthy mouth and the shudders that shook him all over.

I let him fuck into me while I met his every thrust with a pump of my hips, letting my cock bounce between us, spilling its juicy trail across Oliver’s stomach.

It was then, with his fat prick splitting me open that I realised that more than anything, even more than having him shooting his load deep inside me, I wanted to kiss him.

“Oliver,” I moaned, sliding a finger into his mouth. He growled and pulled me down to him, his hand curled around my nape. Our tongues met and it was like being hit by lightning: I felt it down to my toes and I couldn’t stop licking and teasing and biting him.

I was panting when I drew back and his chin was wet with spit; he looked young and bruised and I loved him more than life itself.

“I love you so much,” I said, “I will die if you leave me.”

He took my face in his hands and smiled. “No one’s leaving,” he replied. “I promise you that.”

The kiss that followed was messier and open-mouthed: our bodies were reclaiming their pleasure and my prick was enjoying the friction provided by Oliver’s hairy torso. It didn’t take long for me to come and as I did, I milked his dick until it was all spent and twitchy and spewing semen onto my reddened hole.

“Sorry,” he said, dropping a kiss on my forehead. “Let me find something to clean you up.”

“Or you could use your finger,” I suggested, enjoying his wide-eyed surprise.

“To push it back in and keep it there,” I explained.

He interrogated me with a glance and I nodded. Softly, he inserted the tip of his middle finger. “More,” I urged him. He made a strangled noise and obeyed my orders. I closed my eyes and moaned, to show him how much I loved what he was doing to me. When I opened them again, he was staring at my ass and chewing the inside of his cheek.

“I used to own a plug when I was in Paris,” I said. “It was a pretty little thing made of glass. I didn’t take it with me, in case our bags were searched.”

He swallowed a couple of times and when he spoke, his voice was hoarse.

“Did you use it on yourself?”

“Yes,” I replied, “I would have used it on my lovers but since I wasn’t often allowed to be on top, the occasion didn’t arise.”

“I wouldn’t mind,” he said, “If you still had it, I mean. I’d love to try.”

I relaxed into his arms and fell asleep with his finger still inside of me.

In the morning, Oliver was still in bed with me. At some point, he’d cleaned me up and covered both of us with a sheet. His cheeks were dark with stubble and his lips swollen and chapped, but I’d have had him in a heartbeat were I not still exhausted from the previous night’s exertions. My dick was up for it, but the rest of me felt as though I’d been hit by a freight train.

I tousled Oliver’s tangled hair and he made a noise of protest.

“Rise and shine,” I said, and stroked the length of his calf with my foot.

“Go away,” he muttered. “More sleep.”

I kissed him on the shoulder and got out of bed. I checked my watch: it was ten past seven.

In the bathroom, I found the evidence of our presence from last evening: Oliver’s folded clothes on the chair, the smell of the oil I’d poured into the water, the wet sponge I’d used to rub Oliver’s skin.

It had been before Oliver had told me that he loved me. Before I’d confessed that I loved him back.

I looked at myself in the mirror and, despite the razor burn and the dark circles around my eyes, I saw happiness or something very much like it.

“You shouldn’t have let me sleep,” Oliver complained when I got back.

He stared down at his torso and grimaced. “I need a bath.”

I sat next to him and ran my hand from his throat to his navel. “Looks alright to me,” I said. He snorted a laugh. “Deviant,” he said.

“Only for you,” I murmured.

“That better be true,” he replied, grasping my hand and bringing it to his lips.

“It’s all true,” I said, “Are you all mine?”

He licked a striped across my palm, “Yes, all yours.”

I threw myself on him and kissed his lips until they opened and let me in.

***

Breakfast would have been an embarrassing affair of stolen touches and heated glances but unfortunately for us, reality put paid to our daydreams.

Mariette had just brought us a pan full of eggs when someone banged on the door.

It was the new gendarme, Vartain.

We went to meet him in the hall. He was in full regalia, standing ramrod straight with a disdainful curl on his thin lips.

“How can we help?” asked Elio.

“You are Monsieur Perlman and you Monsieur?”

I told him my name and he wrote it down on a small leather-bound notebook.

“Is there no one else in the house?”

“My housekeeper, Mariette Perrin,” Elio replied. “Who are you looking for?”

“You are not housing any children are you?” the man said.

“Is that a crime?” I asked.

Vartain glared at me.

“It depends,” he said, “Not all children are the same.”

Elio intervened before I could speak. “Anyway, there are no children here. You are more than welcome to search the house.”

The gendarme’s posture seemed to deflate. “I’ll take your word for it; for now, at least.”

“Is that all or would you like a cup of coffee before you go?”

Vartain’s nostrils flared but he spoke calmly. “Thank you, but I am in a hurry.”

“Good day,” Elio said.

The man touched his hat and left.

“There is no time to lose,” Elio said, as soon as the door clicked shut. “We have to get them out of Lavaurette.”

“Not today,” I argued. “They will have eyes all over the place. Let things simmer down. Better not be seen near Madame Darel’s.”

Elio nodded. “Thank god Papa wasn’t here,” he murmured. “Maybe they’ll forget all about him.”

I doubted it but I didn’t want to voice my fears, so I hugged Elio to me and breathed him in.


	28. Samuel and Samuel

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> First if all: Happy 2020 to all of you!
> 
> As you may have guessed, Samuel is back!  
Elio is also back to being a brat but Oliver knows how to deal with his tantrums...
> 
> Elio's POV/ Oliver's POV

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I couldn't resist the Samuel double-act, it was too tempting.

Papa returned that afternoon.

Oliver was in the garden digging up potatoes and I was running up and down the house trying to find viable hiding places for the children should the worst come to pass.

The best spot was a room on the other side of the bathroom: the door was concealed and there was only a tiny window which was barely visible from the outside.

I heard Mariette’s expostulations and hurried downstairs.

“You look like you haven’t eaten and washed for days on end,” she was saying.

“I’m all right,” Dad replied, “I needed to lose some weight anyway.”

She snorted and looked towards the staircase, noticing my presence.

“He’s all gaunt,” she grumbled, shaking her head.

Papa turned round and I noticed that his paunch had all but gone, that his face was tanned, his beard longer and his hair untidy; for all of this, or maybe because of it, he looked younger.

“Elio,” he cried, opening his arms like he’s used to do when I was little and wanted a hug. I embraced him and he patted my back. “Is Olivier still here?” he asked.

“He’s outside,” I replied.

“And you are here to keep him company, I suppose,” he winked at me and I felt my cheeks flush.

“We had things to discuss,” I said, “A gendarme - that new Vichy man named Vartain – came here to check whether we were hiding any kids. Obviously, he had someone specific in mind.”

Dad’s expression darkened.

“The situation is worse than I’d imagined,” he murmured, wiping his glasses on the hem of his shirt.

“Where have you been?” I enquired, as we walked into the drawing room. Mariette had already brought us coffee together with sliced bread and peach preserve. I wanted to fetch Oliver but I wasn’t sure whether Papa wanted to keep the reason of his journey private.

After he’d sated his hunger and thirst, he asked me for a cigarette. I lighted two, handed him one, and waited to hear his tale.

“I was in Roussillon,” he explained. “A place called Luberon.”

I’d never heard of it.

“You must have heard of Gloria SMH,” he went on.

“A cell of the Resistance,” I replied, “But operating in the Parisian area.”

“You remember Suzanne?”

“The pianist,” I asked, puzzled. “Of course... Wait, do you and... Is she your friend?”

He laughed. “Not in the way you are insinuating.”

I frowned. “I wish you just told me instead of throwing hints.”

“She’s a dear friend and, like us, she had to leave Paris. She’s with her companion, a very talented writer. We share the same name, but he’s Irish.”

He told me that the man’s name was Samuel Beckett. I had heard of him, had probably met him too, but I couldn’t recall any of his writings.

“More Pricks Than Kicks,” said Oliver’s voice. Papa greeted him with a beaming smile and I did my utmost not to jump up into his arms. He had his shirt sleeves rolled up to his elbows and his hair damp from the water he must have splashed on his face after he’d washed his hands.

“What?” I babbled like a cretin.

Oliver poured himself a cup of coffee and sat on the couch next to my father.

“That’s the title of a collection of Beckett’s short stories,” he replied, “Promising, I thought. I’d read his essay on Proust and found it a tad too self-involved.”

“He’s working on a novel,” Papa said, “In between helping to thwart the German invasion of France.”

I was feeling left out. “But why did you go there?” I interjected.

Oliver was spreading a thin layer of jam on a slice of bread and I tried not to stare at his brawny forearm, at the tracery of veins on the inside of his wrist, at his long, elegant fingers: all mine, I thought, and it was too much: I had to clear my throat and look away.

“Suzanne wrote to me,” Papa replied. “Not to Le Domaine, don’t worry. I have set up a PO box in Mariette’s name. She goes to collect the letters on my behalf.”

I gaped at him.

“Anyway,” he continued, ignoring my bafflement. “Like I said, Suzanne wrote to me to tell me that Samuel was going crazy. He’s not used to living in the countryside away from the hustle and bustle of Paris. I was reminded of you.”

“I coped rather well,” I argued. “And I didn’t have a Suzanne with me.”

I realised what I’d said a moment too late. Dad arched his eyebrows and glanced at Oliver and then at me.

There was a tense silence and then Oliver broke it. “Elio has been staying here while you were away,” he said, adding, “Here with me.”

“I’m glad,” Papa said, clearly meaning it. “I was hoping that my absence might do the trick.”

My first instinct was to say something cutting or sarcastic but Oliver smiled at me and I had to smile back: I simply had no choice.

“I will have to return to Lavaurette,” I said, “Can’t leave the office for too long or Juliette will come and look for me.”

“She’s an interesting lady,” Oliver told Dad. “I believe that she can read Elio like a book.”

“Interesting, my eye,” I scoffed. “She wants to lay her paws on you, I tell you. The way she was ogling your---” I bit my lips and both Oliver and Papa burst out laughing.

“He’s a handful,” Dad said, “But I assume you know the score.”

“All right, enough,” I complained. “Let’s go back to the start: are you saying that you went to Roussillon only to prevent this Beckett guy from going insane?”

“I needed company too,” Dad replied. “Not that I don’t enjoy yours and Mariette’s, but I miss my friends.”

“Are they still working for the Maquis?” I asked.

“Yes, and they offered to give me shelter.”

I glared at him. “You don’t need it,” I snapped. “You are safe here.”

“For how long?” he argued. “As soon as the Germans occupy the free zone, they will round-up all those who are directly descended from Jews, regardless of their faith. If I stay here, they will implicate you too. If I go, you can leave Oliver here at Le Domaine with Mariette and tell them I have left for Portugal. It will take them a while to find out whether that’s the truth.”

I stood up and paced the room, my hands balled into fists.

“You could have told me,” I snarled. “Instead you chose to play the happy recluse while all along you were making secret plans to join your writer friend. What does he do for le Maquis? Translate documents?”

“That’s what he used to do,” Dad replied. “Now it’s more to do with storing weapons and sabotage.”

“That’s bloody dangerous,” I shouted.

“Not more than derailing trains and stealing precious artworks.”

Oliver had been listening in silence but now he intervened.

“It’s not a bad idea,” he said. “No one will know he’s there, apart from us.”

I scowled at him. “You said no one would leave, you promised.”

I knew I was being unfair, but I couldn’t bear the thought of losing my father, maybe for good.

“It doesn’t have to be this very instant,” Dad said, “But we need to be ready to act. I had a very long time to think about this and imagined some very horrible scenarios. For instance, what if they came here and told you that in order to save me, you’d have to give up the children: what would you do?”

I wobbled; Oliver came up to me and led me back to the couch.

“I could never,” I whispered. “I’d give myself up.”

“You would do nothing of the sort,” Dad protested. Oliver’s jaw was clenched and a vein was pulsing in his neck.

“There would be no choice,” he said, calmly. “They would demand their pound of flesh. Your father is right: we have to clear the decks, leave them as little ammunition as possible.”

***

I was already regretting the promise I’d made Elio. It had been a mistake to say that no one would leave, because we could not control events or prevent horrible deeds from unfolding before our eyes.

Samuel was right: there was an obvious risk the children could be used as leverage, even after they’d fled. What would stop the Germans from threatening to take Professor Perlman away unless we told them what had happened to Jacob and Julien? What would prevent them from arresting us all after the kids had been found? I didn’t want to interfere between father and son, but I felt as though I was part of their family.

“Would you be safe with Beckett and his friend?” I asked. “I’d assume that since he’s a known intellectual and a foreigner, they’d keep tabs on him.”

“My father was American,” Perlman replied, “I speak English fluently and can easily fake a Yank accent. Suzanne has connections high up in the Resistance and she’s trying to obtain a fake passport for me.”

Elio’s lips were a thin white line. “You’ve thought of everything.”

His father gazed at me. “You’d want to go back to your country won’t you?”

I felt caught out, but also relieved. I nodded.

“With Elio?” he asked. I responded with another nod, and added, “I wished to bring you and the children along as well, but I recognise how difficult that would be.”

“What about asking Florence for help,” Samuel suggested. “For the children, I mean. She has property on the coast. You said you used to know her.”

Elio darted me an accusing look.

“It was a long time ago and I am not sure she liked me very much,” I replied. “Besides, I wouldn’t have the first idea how to get in touch.”

Perlman smiled impishly. “I may be of assistance,” he said.

His son growled. “We can manage without Oliver having to renew unwanted acquaintances.”

“I don’t mind writing to her,” I argued. “I’m just not sure she’ll be willing to risk her own safety to do me a favour.”

“No harm in trying,” said the Professor, and then he stood up and brushed a few crumbs off his shirt. “I’m looking forward to a long bath and a nap. I’ll see you both at dinner.”

He strode out, tousling his son’s curls as he went.

The door was hardly shut when Elio’s ire exploded.

“You two behaved as if I was invisible,” he shouted. “Let me remind you I was the one who offered you a place to stay and yet suddenly I’m being treated like my opinion doesn’t matter.”

“Why are you so upset?” I asked, calmly. “Nothing has been agreed and your father did what you wished him to do: he got out of the house and took charge of his own destiny.”

Elio’s mouth curved in a moue of disdain.

“You are desperate to find out about Armand aren’t you? You want to see whether that beautiful boy has turned into a handsome man.”

His jealousy would have been cute had it not been offensive.

“I’m not going to dignify your sordid insinuation with an answer.”

I opened the French windows and went out to smoke a cigarette.

Half-way through it, I felt Elio’s arms around my waist and his chin hooked on my shoulder.

“Please forgive me,” he murmured. “This thing between us is still very new to me. For years and years it was only Papa and me and now you are part of it too.”

“Not if you don’t want me to be,” I replied, covering his hand with mine. “We can be lovers without---”

He hugged me tighter. “No, we can’t and I don’t want us to be separate in anything. I want you to be making decisions, but I would like to be included too.”

“Sending the children to stay with Florence would be a good thing if we could manage it,” I said, “And as for your father, he wouldn’t be parted from you if he didn’t believe it was for your own good as well as his.”

I threw away my cigarette-end, turned around and took Elio’s face in my hands.

“You are not alone,” I said, “But you have to trust me. I’m not the type that falls for every pretty face.”

He bit his lips. “You did and rather fast,” he replied.

I flashed him a lewd smile. “It wasn’t your face I fell for.”

“What did it then?” he husked.

“I’ll tell you later,” I said, pressing my lips to his throat. I felt his length harden and poke my thigh and let out a low moan which made him groan in return.

“Let’s go upstairs before Mariette sees us,” I whispered.

“You need a wash,” he rasped. “You are all sweaty.”

“The bathroom,” I suggested.

He ogled me through half-mast eyes. “My tongue,” he replied.


	29. About the Boys

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Sorry again for the delay but life intervened... thank you all so very much for your patience and support!
> 
> Our boys receive an unexpected visit: fluff ensues...
> 
> Elio's POV

I was licking up the furrow of Oliver’s spine when it hit me again.

“You love me,” I whispered, “You really love me.”

He snorted, “Is something in my sweat telling you that?”

He lay down on his back and hauled me on top of him. I searched his eyes and found only tenderness, passion and a hint of amusement.

“I did mention it once or twice,” he said, brushing a mass of curls away from my face. “I thought you’d paid attention.”

“It was so sudden,” I remarked, not for the first time, “And it’s never happened to me before.”

“You didn’t give them time,” he replied, with a fond smile. “Or perhaps you didn’t notice. You are not the most observant of men.”

I bit the underside of his chin and – in one practised motion – he trapped me underneath his body, so that our lengths were pressed together. We both moaned then smiled at one another.

“I’m extremely observant,” I argued. “Proof is that I invited you to sleep in my bed the day you came back to Lavaurette.”

He arched his back and circled his hips: I saw several constellations at once.

“Your master-plan worked,” he said, “You should be so proud.”

“I am,” I managed to say, before all my eloquence was lost to the bliss of his flesh on mine.

At dinner, Papa reiterated what he’d already proposed.

“According to Suzanne, we haven’t much time before the invasion of the free zone,” he explained. “The Germans are losing the war so they’ll hang on to whatever land they’ve already conquered.”

Oliver was eating his ratatouille without looking up from his plate. It was his way of granting us some privacy and it made me want to hold his hand or something as soppy.

“When do you intend to leave?”

Dad grimaced and adjusted his glasses.

“In a few days,” he replied. “You should go too.”

“I have my job,” I argued. “And this house: Oliver has worked so hard in the garden and in the orchard---”

“Your life is the only thing that matters,” Oliver intervened, at last. “We’ll take care of the kids and once that’s done, we’ll make our way to Spain and from there to England. I’ll write down my address in London and the phone number of a dear friend of mine, in case--- well, just in case.”

The question hovered unasked between us, but he had understood.

“His name is Luke Morris and he works for the government,” he explained, looking at me.

Papa studied Oliver as though he wished to say something but was hesitating, maybe because of my presence. In the end, he decided to go for it.

“You won’t mind having Elio staying with you over there,” he said, “Won’t it be risky for you?”

Oliver went slightly pinker and cleared his throat.

“We’ll be safe in London,” he replied. “We’ll have to be careful but it can be done. The war hides a multitude of sins.”

“Not that this is a sin,” I said, scowling.

“Two bachelors sharing digs is rather a common arrangement at the moment,” Oliver said, in a conciliatory tone. “And afterwards, if we are lucky enough to survive, we’ll think of something.”

Papa’s eyebrows rose. “You see it as a long-term situation,” he noted.

It was my turn to blush.

“Aren’t marriages till death do us part?” Oliver asked.

I bit my lips and looked away; Dad was similarly affected. He hugged Oliver and told him that he was very happy to have acquired another son.

Mariette came in and frowned when she saw us toast and laugh. She must have thought we’d gone mad.

I wiped my lips and chin on Oliver’s pyjama shirt and groaned, “You taste so good.”

He slid his tongue inside my mouth and licked the remains of his semen.

“Can’t say I agree,” he mocked, “But as long as you like it.”

It was late into the night, but we couldn’t get enough of each other; we’d doze off then awake as soon as we were ready to go again, which seemed alarmingly often.

This time, Oliver had unwittingly rubbed his prick against my hip and he was still asleep when I’d gone down on him; not that he’d objected, since he’d soon opened his legs to make room for me.

“I love sucking cock,” I announced, and he hummed as he prepared to return the favour. He had his tongue on my balls, when we heard some noise coming from downstairs.

“Damn,” I swore, caressing Oliver’s belly. We listened in silence and discerned some voices whose identity we couldn’t place.

“Better go see what’s happening,” he said.

“We should have gone to your room,” I replied. “We wouldn’t have heard a thing.”

“If we’d been sleeping, we wouldn’t have heard a thing.”

He shot me a provoking glance and I smirked. “Your pyjama is smeared with you-know-what,” I said. “You’ll have to wear one of my shirts.”

I handed him the garment in question. “That’s _my_ shirt, the one you borrowed that night,” he remarked.

“I forgot to return it,” I lied, but he didn’t say anything; he just smiled.

Jacob was already asleep in Mariette’s arms, while his brother had a tired yet stubborn expression on his pale face.

“What are you doing here?” Oliver exclaimed. “How did you get here?”

“We walked,” Julien replied, with a hint of pride. “Solange told us the way and I wrote it down.”

“She knew you were coming here?” I enquired, but the boy shook his head.

“I asked her days ago,” he explained. “I pretended that I liked drawing maps.”

I asked Mariette if she could put Jacob in the room with the twin beds; she muttered something under her breath but complied all the same.

In the meantime, Oliver had kept grilling Julien who’d finally come clean.

“I heard that we were going away,” he said, “And I don’t want to go. What if our parents come back and don’t find us?”

“Did you tell Madame Darel?” Oliver asked.

“She insisted that our parents would want us to be safe and for that we had to go somewhere called Juan-something.”

“She’s right,” I said.

Julien had a mulish expression. “You want to get rid of us.”

I felt as though I’d been hit in the solar plexus.

“This couldn’t be farther from the truth,” Oliver said, taking the boy’s face into his hands. He stared into large, sorrowful eyes and went on, “We will never let anything bad happen to you, all right?”

Julien gazed at him in silence for a few moments then nodded slowly.

“Come on,” Oliver said, “You need to go to bed now. We’ll speak tomorrow. Do you need the bathroom first?”

The boy said a grudging yes; Oliver would have taken him upstairs but he didn’t know where the room with the twin beds was so I accompanied Julien on his stead. He was shy at first, and so was I since I was afraid to say the wrong thing; after he’d been to the toilet and washed his face and feet, I asked him whether he fancied a glass of milk.

“Yes, please,” he murmured.

I couldn’t stand it any longer so I hugged him tight until he threw his arms around my neck. I carried him to his room, where his brother was already fast asleep.

I switched on the night light next to Julien’s bed.

“I’m afraid we don’t have any pyjama your size,” I whispered.

“I’m alright,” he replied, rubbing his tired eyes.

I left him to undress on his own and went to fetch the milk. When I returned, he was asleep too. I left the glass on the bedside table, turned off the light then turned it on again. I reflected that they might wake up and not remember where they were and that being able to see their immediate surrounding would make them feel safe.

Oliver was pacing the room.

“We should let Madame Darel know,” he said, “Shall I ride to the next village and phone from there?”

He looked very tense.

“You are not going anywhere in this state,” I replied. “I won’t have you pass out and end up in a ditch or worse.”

“I’m not an invalid,” he gritted out. “You don’t need to wrap me in cotton wool.”

“Let’s not fight,” I pleaded, taking his hand in mine, “I don’t think I can stand it now.”

He gathered me in his arms. “Sorry, my darling,” he whispered. “It’s just the shock. The way Julien looked at us---”

“At me, you mean,” I said, “What monster would bear such a look and not feel ashamed?”

“You have done nothing wrong,” he replied, soothingly.

“I lied to them,” I bit back, “And yes, I did it to spare them, but isn’t false hope worse than the truth? That way, they will always doubt what they are told. We said South of France and Julien thought we were going to, what, to send them to die?”

I choked on a sob and Oliver guided me to the bed and laid me down on it.

“I’m afraid I won’t be able to let them go,” I murmured.

“Yes, I feel the same.”

He kissed all over my face and I tasted my tears on his lips.

I convinced him to let me go to Mouillac by pointing out that he would get to be with the boys when they woke up. I got up when it was still dark and reached my destination at sunrise.

Madame Darel answered the phone after the first ring.

“The parcel arrived safely,” I said, “Both parcels to be precise.”

She thanked God then asked me to keep her informed.

On my way back, I stopped in the fields to smoke a cigarette. The boys would have to stay with us until their departure for the South of France: that much was clear. They’d have to be moved into that concealed room and we’d have to explain to Julien at least part of the situation. His brother was too young but he was old enough to comprehend the danger we were in. It was then that I realised that their fate and ours were forever entwined, that there wouldn’t be a moment in my life when I wouldn’t wonder about their whereabouts or fear about their safety. I was feeling as a parent would but what about Oliver? I was pretty convinced that we were on the same wavelength, but we’d have to hash it out all the same. I dreaded the conversation, so soon after we’d admitted that we wished to live together.

I found Oliver and Papa having breakfast alone.

“Where are the boys?” I blurted out.

“They insisted they wanted to feed the chickens with Mariette,” Dad replied, smiling.

“What it someone sees them?”

“Just this once,” he said.

I stalked out of the room and into the yard.

Jacob ran up to me, his eyes shining with excitement.

“I held a chick,” he shouted, “It bit Julien but not me.”

His brother strolled towards us carrying a bag of feed in his arms.

“Let me take that,” I said, but he shook his head.

Once inside, I noticed that Dad had left Oliver alone.

Mariette took the boys to the kitchen and I sat down and poured myself a cup of coffee.

“I told your father what happened last night,” Oliver said. “I’m sorry I let them go outside, but they really needed a breath of fresh air---”

“They had enough fresh air from Lavaurette to here, don’t you think?” I hissed.

He drew a deep breath and placed his hand on the nape of my neck, massaging it softly. It relaxed me immediately, like a magic pill.

“As I was riding back, I realised something about the boys,” I said, and told him everything.

Oliver caressed the rim of his coffee cup with the pad of his thumb and smiled.

“Yes, that’s what I want too,” he replied, softly.

It was all so incredibly simple, as though Oliver had been made just for me, only for me.


	30. Before Night Falls

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Last of the calm before the storm...
> 
> Oliver's POV

We had a handful of days' respite before everything unravelled.

Elio had cashed a substantial cheque for the work he had already done on the monastery but the film that had employed him was reluctant to spend more on it.

“I can hardly blame them,” Elio commented. “Why waste money on a building that could be occupied or bombed? I’ve often wondered why they took the trouble in the first place.”

“Maybe they had hoped the war wouldn’t last quite as long as that,” I suggested.

He scrunched his nose, “Or perhaps the hotel was meant for the Germans,” he said. “It would be quite the irony: luxury accommodation for the invader designed by a Jew.”

“You are not really a Jew,” I argued.

“That’s not how they’ll see it,” he insisted. “Blood’s more important than upbringing, blood will out.”

“What a pile of nonsense,” I muttered.

We were having this conversation in the drawing room and we hadn’t noticed Jacob crouched behind one of the armchairs.

“What is a Jew?” he asked, crawling towards us on his hands and knees.

Elio’s mouth opened then shut again.

“What do you think?” I asked, picking him up and placing him on the couch next to me. I cleaned his hands with my handkerchief and he stared at me, frowning.

“I know me and Julien are Jews,” he replied, “But I don’t know what it means.”

“Did your parents celebrate the Sabbath?”

“Only when I was small,” he said, “They didn’t before they left.”

They must have been terrified, I thought. And it was all for nothing: they had been taken away all the same and – had it not been for a merciful gendarme – the children wouldn’t have been spared either. I gazed at Jacob’s innocent face and felt a sudden surge of pure hatred. Let them try to hurt him, I silently raged, just let them.

Aside from the big questions about the future, we had the minutiae of day-to-day life to contend with. The children, for instance, had to be clothed as well as fed, and we didn’t have anything that would fit them. Since Madame Darel was afraid of spies, the parcel with the boys’ garments had to be sent via a network of housekeepers and maids.

I wrote to Florence the day after the children arrived at Le Domaine.

At first I hadn’t known what to say but then I recalled the time we’d spent together and found an unsuspected pleasure in committing those memories to paper. Naturally, I didn’t mention Julien and Jacob, but I asked her for permission to perhaps visit her and renew our acquaintance.

Elio saw the name on the envelope but didn’t ask any questions.

One afternoon, I returned from Lavaurette and heard music coming from upstairs.

Samuel was in the kitchen but the door was open and he saw me standing in the hall.

“Is that Julien?” I asked.

He winked. “No, that’s Elio. The boy insisted he wanted to hear him play and he couldn’t refuse. He’s more stubborn than our Elio, and that’s saying something.”

I smiled distractedly, my attention fixed on the music.

“Be careful not to spook him,” he advised. “If he catches you staring, he may turn this wonderful Bach Cantata into something less pleasant to the ear.”

“Does he do that often?”

Samuel laughed. “The times I had to stomach a Ravel piano concerto that had been given the Liszt treatment.” 

“Was he upset with you?”

“He was just flirting with someone.”

I didn’t particularly like to imagine that.

“I’ll take my chances,” I said, climbing up the stairs.

There are few moments in life which can be described as magical. Some people use and abuse that definition, but I was never one of them. Yet that afternoon, as the last of the autumnal light drifted through the curtained windows of Professor Perlman’s study, I was witness to one such moments: Elio was wearing my shirt, the too-long sleeves rolled up to his elbows, and in his dark curls were hints of cherry-wood and mahogany. Sat on the bench next to him, Julien was raptly observing Elio’s fingers as they danced over the keyboard. I held my breath, listened and stared, like a figure turned to stone by Medusa. Elio was not an impassive performer: his face registered every emotion that he was experiencing and by the end of the piece, his lips were bitten red and his eyes bright.

I started clapping softly, certain that he’d be startled by it. Instead, he raised his gaze to meet mine and smirked.

“Did you enjoy the show?” he enquired.

I swallowed the lump in my throat and replied a rough, “Yes,” before Julien interrupted what would have certainly evolved into passionate lovemaking.

“You are better than Madame Darel,” he exclaimed. “You will teach me, yes?”

“If you do as you are told,” Elio replied, seriously, “And promise not to go outside unless one of us gives you permission.”

The boy made a face but agreed.

“Now you can practise here until dinner,” Elio said, tousling Julien’s fine hair.

I took Elio’s hand and led him out. As soon as the door was shut, I pressed him against the wall next to it and kissed him hard on the lips. He smiled into it before opening up and allowing me to lick into his mouth. His hands stroked down my back and up into my hair, but ended up grasping and squeezing my ass.

“Not as sophisticated as your piano playing,” I mocked.

He nuzzled my throat. “I know about the things that really matter,” he drawled.

“Enlighten me,” I whispered.

Elio gazed into my eyes and wetted his lips.

“Time flies and your ass is mine,” he said, with a seductive leer.

Who could disagree with that?

Juliette had not forgotten about her invitation to dinner.

One foggy morning Mariette returned from the village and muttered something about spinsters and busybodies.

Elio had gone out early on his bike and promised to return in time for lunch, while the boys had had their breakfast and were playing hide and seek inside the house.

Samuel and I were sitting in the dining room, sipping coffee and reading.

“What is it?” Perlman asked and his elderly housekeeper sniffed and placed a piece of paper on the table next to me.

“It’s from the Bobotte woman,” she mumbled. “She was buying some awful pork chops with her coupons. Such a waste, if you ask me.”

The note read: “_Tonight at 7, bring wine. Juliette. PS I’ll leave the back door open_”

Juliette’s apartment was small but cosy. She didn’t like clutter but was partial to good quality porcelain and colourful rugs.

“Sit down Monsieur Armand,” she urged me, once she’d shown us into her lounge. “You make my humble abode seem even more of a birdcage.”

“Please call me Olivier.”

I did as told, relishing the comfort of her old-fashioned sofa.

Elio was standing by the fireplace, gazing into the simmering embers. It wasn’t cold outside but it had started to grow a little chillier.

“I’d have cooked you a far better meal before the war, but that’s too boring a topic of conversation so I won’t dwell on it,” she said, and went back to the kitchen.

We’d brought two bottles of local red wine and she’d already poured some out and offered it to us while we waited for the roast potatoes to be out of the oven.

“Are you alright?” I asked Elio. We hadn’t had time to talk since he’d been back from wherever he’d gone to.

“Fine,” he replied, without sounding it. When he realised I was about to insist, he said, “I’ll tell you later, when we are home.”

Over dinner, Juliette made us laugh with anecdotes about the good people of Lavaurette and, to Elio’s shame, she regaled me with some of the latter’s embarrassing faux-pas, like the time he fell off his chair while he was talking to the Mayor.

Afterwards, while we were smoking and drinking cognac, she seemed to sober up.

“In my position I hear things, you know,” she said, looking at me through narrowed eyes. “I don’t care who you are or what you are, but there are many who will.”

“You mean where I come from?”

She snorted a laugh. “That doesn’t matter as much as the other thing.”

“What other thing?” asked Elio, with a disdainful tone.

Juliette didn’t even pretend to take the hint.

“Fiancée in Paris, my eye!” she exclaimed. “You’re no more interested in that than I am in needle-point.”

I couldn’t repress a giggle. Elio glared at me.

“All I am saying is: don’t underestimate how malevolent people can be. Better if you are not seen together too often.”

“We don’t wish to be seen at all,” Elio blurted out.

Juliette studied him as she sipped her liquor. “The sooner, the better,” she replied.

That night in bed Elio was unusually quiet.

“What is it that you were going to tell me?” I enquired.

“Nothing important,” he replied. “Let’s go to sleep.”

He had his back against my chest but I turned him around so that I could see his face: his eyes were shut and his lips were pressed together.

“Listen, why don’t you tell me so that we can get to the good bit where I kiss you goodnight?”

He huffed and emitted a long sigh.

“It’s really nothing,” he whispered. “I went to Mouillac to use the telephone but it was no longer there.”

I sat up, fully awake.

“Has it been moved elsewhere?”

“I asked at the Post Office and they said a couple of men in uniform came and dismantled it; German uniforms.”

“No more public telephones,” I murmured.

“I’ll have to try another village,” he said, unconvinced.

“We’ll find a way,” I said, taking his hand and lacing our fingers together. “We’ll hire a car and go to Clermont if that’s what it takes.”

Jacob wanted to be carried piggyback around the house and I could never refuse.

“I’m flying, I’m flying,” he would scream and his brother would roll his eyes, as though he was already a grown-up.

Ever since he’d heard Elio play the piano, Julien had developed a case of hero-worship and he soon started to adopt Elio’s mannerisms, like the way he straightened his spine after slouching or his over-confident stride. Samuel had noticed it too and he would glance at me and smile whenever it happened.

We had agreed to sleep in my room in the tower and Elio only went back to his old bedroom to get a change of clothes.

“Why not my room?” he had complained, knowing full well the reason.

“They’ll hear us.”

“I can be quiet.”

“I don’t want us to be,” I said.

The house, Le Domaine, had been the very first place where I had been myself and soon I’d have to leave it, perhaps forever, and I didn’t wish to suppress my feelings in any way, not when it was so important to let them fly.

There was a sense of increased urgency in our lovemaking, an intensity that hadn’t existed before.

We had each other on every surface and in every configuration, our flesh imprinting on the grain and pores and stitches of the world surrounding and enveloping us.

“We’ll be back, one day,” I murmured, as Elio panted between my legs.

“Only in our memories,” he replied, later.

This brief happiness ended on the day of the dead, the second day of November.


	31. Day of the Dead

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Sorry about this...
> 
> Warning for attempted sexual assault. Nothing major but be warned in case you are triggered by non-con.
> 
> Oliver's POV/Elio's POV

The first morning in November we awoke to grey skies and a fine drizzle.

Elio was shaving – he insisted on doing that despite the scant evidence of facial hair – while I went to check on the children.

I was heading downstairs when I heard Mariette calling out for Elio.

“What is it?” I asked.

“It’s the Professor,” she replied, handing me a sealed envelope, “He’s gone.”

“Gone where?”

The old woman shrugged. “Away from here,” she replied.

I ran to Samuel’s quarters and opened the armoire: it was half-empty. The shelves weren’t as depleted, but some books were missing, including the Enchiridion.

I heard footsteps behind me. “Has he gone to the same place as my parents?” asked a sullen-faced Julien.

“I don’t think so,” I replied, smiling. “Where’s your brother?”

“In bed”

“Let’s go wake him up,” I said, taking him by the hand. Reluctantly, he let me guide him out of Samuel's room; he kept looking back, as though he expected Samuel to appear from behind the furniture.

Elio was dressing Jacob but he immediately suspected that something wasn’t right. He smoothed down the boy’s hair and told Julien that Mariette was going to open a new jar of peach preserve just for them. As soon as the kids scampered out, he interrogated me. I took the envelope from my pocket and gave it to him.

Inside it was a note that he read in silence, frowning.

“Roussillon,” I said. He nodded.

“He didn’t want to say goodbye,” he murmured. His eyes were shiny with tears. “Oh Oliver, what if I never see him again?”

I hugged him and he trembled as he cried. There was nothing I could say, since I didn’t want to offer him platitudes or lies. Samuel had gone to stay with friends: that was the main consolation I could provide, so after a while, when Elio’s sobs had quietened down, I spoke of that.

“They are armed and better connected than we are. Besides, no one knows he’s there. It’s much easier to hide someone who is unrelated to you because they are harder to trace. When was the last census carried out?”

“Last year, when we were still in Paris,” he said, wiping his wet cheeks.

“Precisely,” I exclaimed. “And you are here now, so that’s as far as they can go. He wasn’t seen in Lavaurette and you can always swear under oath that you have no idea where he went, since in a way it’s true. You will have to burn that note, of course.”

“I won’t,” he snapped. “It may be the last memento I have of him.”

I stared at him and he glared back.

“Why are you being so cruel?” he murmured.

My heart missed a couple of beats then thumped in my throat.

“I only want to keep you and your father safe.”

“I know, I know,” he cried, and tore the piece of paper into tiny pieces. I kneeled to pick them up and Elio’s fingers threaded through my hair. I rested my cheek against his thigh, breathing in the scent of him mixed with the vague smell of Marseille detergent. Would that be my Madeleine, I thought idly; the perfume that would forever evoke the memory of the man I loved on the day he’d feared having have lost his father.

Samuel’s departure produced the proverbial domino effect: Elio cycled to his apartment in Lavaurette to pack the rest of his belongings. After that he intended to go to his office and shut it down.

At Le Domaine, I prepared a bag for the boys and one for myself.

“Where are we going?” asked Jacob, while his brother practised on the piano.

“To the seaside,” I replied. “Not today, but soon. You’ll love it, I bet.”

“Sandcastles,” he shouted. “I went once and Papa built a big one, taller than me.”

“We’ll do that together.”

“Will Elio come too?”

“He’s the architect so we definitely need him.”

“What’s an ---tect?”

“A person who designs and build houses.”

“And castles?”

“Those too,” I smiled, as he undid my shoelaces and tried to take my shoe off. He finally succeeded and inserted his small foot inside it.

“What are you doing?”

“Will my foot get so big too?” he enquired, with a worried frown.

“Maybe, when you are older,” I replied, caressing the tender nape of his neck.

“You are very old,” he remarked. “I don’t think I want to be old.”

“It’s a long way away,” I kissed the top of his head. “You don’t have to worry about it yet.”

After lunch, I went in the garden to smoke. The work I had done since I’d arrived at Le Domaine had already borne fruit yet how devoid of purpose it all seemed. Life had to go on, and nature was untouched by our dramas. I thought of Peter and of his hankering for risk, his conviction that he’d always cheat death. Was it because he didn’t love anything enough to be afraid? Maybe I was being uncharitable, but thinking of being safe in London with Elio, would I have volunteered to fly planes in enemy territory? No, I wouldn’t have left him unless I’d been forced to. I reflected that running towards danger with open arms is the prerogative of those who have little to lose. Duty and patriotism: those words were like ashes in my mouth.

Elio burst into the drawing room like a cannon ball. His face was pinched and his eyes wild.

The boys were having an early dinner with Mariette while I was drinking Pastis and studying a map of the South of France.

“They have arrested Madame Darel,” he said.

He stumbled on the rug and nearly fell over. I rushed to him and together we sat on the couch, looking at each other in stony silence.

“Tell me,” I said, after a while.

“Solange didn’t return home,” he recounted. “She couldn’t be found. Word got around that she was a spy, that she was having a tryst with a foreigner. I suspect that she was abducted and forced to confess about the boys. I believe that man Benech was behind it. He’s always hated Madame Darel and he keeps up this pretence,” he spat the word, “of being honourable, of wanting to do the _right thing_.”

“But surely they can’t accuse her of anything without proof.”

He snorted. “This isn’t England, Oliver. We are colluding with the enemy and they want prisoners for their camps.”

“We have to leave,” I said.

“What with?” he snapped. “We need a car or a lorry. It’ll take me at least a day to find one.”

“Alright then,” I agreed. “Tomorrow night. What about Mariette?”

“She has a younger brother somewhere near Limoges,” he said, “Or she can stay here if she prefers.”

Mariette didn’t ask many questions, but confirmed that unless “those damn Huns” forced her out, she’d stay right where she was.

We consumed an early meal and put the children to bed. We had discussed whether to tell them about the impending journey but we were afraid they’d stay awake and we wanted them to get as much sleep and tranquillity as possible.

“One of us should stay here with them,” Elio said, as we closed the door behind us.

“It’ll only scare them,” I replied, “Normality is what they need more than anything.”

“That’s gone forever.”

“Not forever, surely,” I argued.

He gazed at me and took my hand, silently.

We didn’t make love that night: we couldn’t stop kissing long enough to engage the rest of our bodies. I felt like I could devour him and yet the feeling I experienced was gentle, almost transcendent. The power of it was magnified by the certainty that it was reciprocated in kind. We fell asleep as one.

It was past midnight were there came a thunderous hammering at the front door. We had chosen Elio’s room to be closer to the children and I was the first one to hear the noise.

“Elio,” I murmured and his eyes filled with dread as soon as he opened them.

“Go to the children and lock the door,” he ordered, as he jumped out of bed and started to dress. “Don’t argue. They can’t be certain of your presence here if they don’t see you. Keep absolutely still and they won’t find you.”

He was right: the door was so well concealed that it couldn’t be locked from the outside.

Mariette had been told to stay in her quarters, so the knocking went on, loud and insistent.

At the first floor landing, Elio hugged me and whispered something which sounded like a goodbye.

***

A weird calm descended upon me as I strode to the front door.

I supposed it was what actors felt before going on stage: agitation as the curtain rose but self-assurance once the performance started.

There were three of them and only one was known to me: Benech.

“Mr Perlman,” he greeted me with a smug smile on his lips. “These are Monsieur Pichon and Herr Lindemann.”

I stood aside to let them in. Pichon was a small man with a bold head and wire-rimmed glasses while the tall spindly German was – judging by his uniform – a junior officer.

“What is your business here at this hour?” I enquired.

The first to reply was Pichon, who explained that he worked for the Inquiry and Control Section.

“It has replaced the Police for Jewish Affairs,” he went on. “Last year we carried out a detailed census of Jewish people in the Free Zone and your name is not on it. Do you have a certificate of non-belonging to the Jewish race?”

I laughed. “I am a Frenchman and have a document that identifies me as such.”

“Come on, Monsieur, I am sure you are familiar with the policy of Aryanisation.”

“Wearing the yellow star, you mean?”

Pichon frowned. “Full citizenship comes with obligation, especially at times such as these.”

“What times are these, pray tell.”

Benech intervened.

“The Law of 2 June 1941 gives the Prefecture the right of internment of any Jew, foreign or French.”

Pichon nodded. “The Head of Police, Monsieur Bousquet, has included those from the Free Zone and Laval himself volunteered children under sixteen.”

I felt the colour drain from my face.

“If you can prove your ancestry, we’ll take it into consideration.”

Benech came closer to me, a sly look on his mousy face. “There may be a way to get around it,” he said, “You see, Lindemann here needs to fulfil the quota he’s been assigned and you are not on his list. You know who is on his list?”

I shook my head.

“Two Jewish children, names of Jacob and Julien Duguay,” he replied. “You abducted them and hid them in Madame Darel’s house. She’s been arrested but she refuses to speak.”

“I don’t know what you are talking about,” I said, hoping my voice wouldn’t falter.

“We’ll search the house,” he spat. “I’m certain they are here. And if you resist,” he showed me his handgun. 

“I have no intention of stopping you,” I sneered. “It’s only me and my housekeeper.”

“And what about your father?” he asked, point-blank.

“My father left a long time ago,” I replied, calmly. “I couldn’t tell you where he went, not even under torture, because I haven’t the least idea.”

Pichon was looking uncomfortable: clearly, he was used to applying the law and was displeased at mentions of unnecessary violence.

The German searched me for weapons then he and Benech marched upstairs to look for the children.

I wanted a cigarette but was afraid my hand would shake. I turned around and lit one quickly.

“Aren’t you ashamed of collaborating with the enemy?” I enquired, trying not to think about Oliver and the kids.

“France is merely being pragmatic,” he said, superciliously.

“If you lose the moral argument and your practical assumptions are baseless, what are you left with? If you get the politics wrong, you’ll have nothing else to fall back on. You are going to lose to Russia and you are going to lose to America.”

His rebuttal was impeded by a loud crash. Before he could stop me, I ran upstairs.

It could be a trap, I thought, and stopped midway.

Another crash but no screams: I listened, and couldn’t discern any voice. I forced myself to stay still, despite the desperate need to be with the people I loved.

Half an hour or so later, the two men returned with Mariette in tow.

“This isn’t over,” Benech snapped. “The old woman will come with us and we’ll leave Lindemann here. He’ll find a way to make you speak,” he added with a leer.

He and Pichon strode out, pushing a very annoyed Mariette ahead of them.

The door banged shut and I drew a sigh of relief.

“I need a cup of coffee,” I said. “Want one?”

The German sneered and pushed me against the wall. The way he was looking at me, at my throat and chest, made me shudder. He said something I couldn’t understand and groped me. I tried to kick him and push him away, but he grabbed his gun and pointed it at my temple. He smelled of sweat and fried onions; I squirmed as he ground his crotch against my hip. His heavy breath was on my lips, when I heard the distant sound of footsteps.

“Not here,” I cried, indicating the door to the drawing room.

The man hesitated a few moments but finally relented. He yanked me by the arm, his gun still trained at my head. I knew what was waiting for me, but I hoped it would give Oliver and the children time to run away.

I was resigned to my fate when Oliver’s voice resounded, cold and vibrating with fury.

“Let him go,” he commanded, “Or I’ll kill you.”

Caught by surprise, Lindemann had moved away from me. I ducked down just as he shot at Oliver. I heard the cry and the thud of a body falling to the ground. Next to me, the German was lifeless, his face partially blown-off.

“Are you alright?”

Oliver’s hands were all over me but he sounded remote to my deafened ears.


	32. Severance

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> More bad stuff to come, I am afraid.
> 
> Warning for people being bumped off. They deserve it but it doesn't mean it's gonna be pleasant.
> 
> Elio's POV
> 
> PS Trust me, things will get better...

Oliver’s lips were moving but I couldn’t make out his words. There was something wet on my face and when I wiped it off, I saw that it was blood. It was dripping _on_ me, I realised with horror, which meant that Oliver had been hit.

“Stay still,” I shouted. “You’re bleeding.”

My ears popped just as I was screaming.

“It’s nothing,” he was saying. “Only my ear, it’ll stop in a moment. Are you alright?”

I nodded. “Good shot,” I remarked. “We’ve got to get rid of him,” I said, indicating the dead German. “But first let’s have a look at you.”

We staggered to the kitchen, where I washed and cleaned his mangled ear.

“You’re just like Van Gogh,” I said, applying iodine to the wound.

He barked a laugh then turned serious.

“I saw several shades of red when that bastard touched you,” he snarled.

“Benech put him up to it,” I replied. “He must have guessed about us.”

I used a clean handkerchief as a bandage and fixed it with sticking plaster. It was still bleeding but not as profusely.

“What about the children?”

“I told them to stay in bed and not to say a word until I came back.”

“I’ll go to them,” I said. “Your wound will scare them.”

We went back to the hall and I noticed that, because of the direction of the shot, the German’s clothes hadn’t been smeared with blood.

“He’s nearly as tall as you,” I said. “If we wrap his head in a blanket, we can take his jacket off for you to wear.”

I felt oddly clear-headed, as though the gunshot had cleared the cobwebs from my synapses. Conversely, Oliver seemed more pliant and willing to be told what to do.

“There’s that throw on the couch in the drawing room,” I said, “Make sure you search his pockets too: take his documents and his money. Wait for me to move him though: I think we should throw him into the disused well in the garden.”

Oliver hesitated.

“What?” I asked.

He pulled me to him. “I could have hit you,” he murmured, shakily.

I nuzzled his throat. “Or he could have killed you,” I replied, “At which point my life wouldn’t have been worth living.”

“Goose,” he said, combing his fingers through my hair. The whole exchange didn’t last more than a few moments, but it steadied my nerves.

I ran up the stairs and all the way to the kids’ bedroom. I knocked at the door and heard the key being turned in the lock.

Julien had been crying but his brother was asleep.

“Oliver is taking care of something,” I said, and kissed him on the cheek. “Get dressed while I wake Jacob. We’ll have to leave soon.”

“I heard noises,” he whispered.

“We had guests,” I replied. “We got rid of them.”

He didn’t ask any more questions and Jacob was too sleepy to care what was done to him. I took them to the bathroom and when I led them downstairs, Lindemann’s body had been removed.

“There’s milk on the stove,” I told the boys, and went looking for Oliver.

“Let me do it on my own,” he said. He had removed the German’s boots too: they were his size and looked brand new. Dragging him by his legs, Oliver had moved the corpse to the drawing room and planned to carry it into the garden through the French doors. It was like a macabre cortège, missing only a quantity of black drapery and the scent of incense.

I removed the stone slab that lay across the mouth of the well; it was humid and covered with moss.

“Now for the difficult bit,” he panted. “Take the feet, I’ll haul him up.”

It took four tries before we could get him up and roll him inside the narrow channel of the well. There was a muffled thud when he hit the bottom. “Good riddance,” Oliver said, his voice as cold as when he’d threatened the German just before shooting him.

We had one piece of luck: Lindemann had come with his own car and his driving permit had been in his pocket with his other documents. I looked at the photo on the dead man’s identification card: he didn’t look much like Oliver but if we’d smudged the photo, we might get away with it. I doubted French people would ask to see his ID, so the main difficulty would be staying away from other Germans.

“If you tie a scarf around your neck, you could pretend that your vocal cords have been affected.”

He looked at me like I’d gone insane.

“I can’t pass for this Klaus Lindemann,” he objected. “I barely speak two words of German.”

“Speak French with a German accent,” I insisted. “Or, like I said, stay silent and look haughty: you are great at that.”

“And what about you?” he said.

That was the moment. I drew a deep breath and scratched the back of my head.

“I’m not coming with you.”

“What are you talking about?” he snarled. “After all we’ve said and done, you are not coming? If you stay here, they’ll arrest you.”

“It’s too risky for the children if I am with you,” I explained. “They know about me, but can’t be sure about them or you. We have to separate: there’s no other way.”

Oliver was as white as chalk when he asked: “And what will you do?”

I forced him to sit down and fetched a bottle of cognac from the liquor cabinet. I poured two shots and made him drink one while I knocked back the other.

“I have to kill Benech,” I said, as I poured two more.

“You are crazy if you think I’ll let you do it,” he hissed.

“There is no other choice. Think about it: the others don’t care about Julien and Jacob. That’s his personal vendetta against Madame Darel. Once he’s gone, they’ll stop looking.”

“Yes, because they’ll start hunting for you,” he shouted.

“I don’t care,” I said, “I have a plan. I won’t tell you, in case you get ideas.”

He rubbed his eyes with the heel of his hands.

“When did you decide to go it alone?” he whispered.

I caressed his back and pressed my lips to his shoulder. “Tonight,” I replied. “For the first time I truly realised how terrible things are going to be once the Germans gain full control. You have to drive to the South and go to your friend’s house. I will join you as soon as I can.”

“Florence hasn’t replied yet.”

“It doesn’t matter,” he said. “She’ll let you in, I am sure.”

Oliver stared into my eyes. “I can’t go without you,” he said, a pained grimace contorting his mouth. “What sort of man do you take me for?”

I stroked the still-wet fringe away from his forehead, “The sort that responds to common sense.”

“I can’t do it,” he murmured. “Live or die, we have to do it together.”

“If it wasn’t for the children,” I argued. “But they have to be saved at all costs.”

He had started to cry, the tears streaming down unchecked. I cried too, and wrapped him in my arms.

The hardest part was to say goodbye to the children.

“I will see you soon,” I kept repeating, but wasn’t believed. Julien glared at me and Jacob sniffled and tried to climb up my legs.

Oliver had bruised me with kisses, but I was already missing the warmth of his body and the comfort of his presence.

When it was time for them to go, I went back into the house and up to the tower and inside Oliver’s bedroom.

I threw myself on the bed and howled.

My plan was simple: I knew where Benech lived; all I had to do was get inside the house and shoot him as soon as he stepped in. If I used a silencer, no one would hear and his body wouldn’t be discovered until he was missed from school. Unfortunately it was Monday, but I couldn’t wait until the end of the week. 

I let the chickens out of the coop and shooed them in the direction of the nearest farm. The eggs I took to the kitchen and used for an omelette. I ate because I had to, but the food went down like lead. I drank more of the cognac that I’d shared with Oliver and had to bite my tongue not to burst into tears.

My bag was ready: I packed some cheese and bread together with my flask and I was good to go.

The sky was fading to grey when I closed the front door behind me: my heart was like a lump of earth atop a coffin.

Action is the best antidote to misery and cycling in the brisk air of the November dawn restored some of my positivity: all was not lost, I told myself; Oliver was driving away to safety and we’d soon be reunited.

Lavaurette seemed the same as usual: old women walking to the shops, men going to work; the church-bells chiming every quarter-hour, the smell of fresh bread; but if one looked more closely, one could notice the garish posters decorating the piazza: they all depicted a Jewish man with exaggerated hooked nose embracing a caricature of Churchill, all captioned with the slogan: _the enemy lives among us_.

I had left my bicycle and my bag in the usual hiding place: one of the many abandoned houses in the Jewish quarter.

I wore a woollen hat that covered my hair and part of my face, and a coat that was bulky enough to disguise the presence of a handgun and a silencer.

Benech lived in a first floor apartment with its own entrance that was accessed via a short stone staircase. The street was more of an alley and it stank of urine and disinfectant. No doubt, once he’d ascended the rungs of power, he’d be able to afford a more stately home. Or he would have, had he lived long enough to betray more innocent people to the Germans.

I stood in a doorway and waited until finally I saw him leave: he looked tired but he had shaved and wore a smug grin on his lips.

The lock was easily dealt with: one of the perks of my profession consisted in owning the tools for breaking and entering, much like a highly-educated thief. I could have forced it but I wanted to catch him by surprise.

Inside, the air was musty, reeking of smoke and nasty cologne. I sat on a chair in the sitting room and shut my eyes: I was in for a long wait, but I relished the comfort and the quiet, knowing that they would soon be in short supply.

It was gone midday when I heard the squeak of hinges. Softly, I rose from my seat and went to stand by the closed door of the sitting room, gun in hand. Judging by the footsteps, Benech was alone. He went to the bathroom to wash his hands and as soon as he came out, I caressed the trigger and waited.

It happened so quickly that in the years to come I’d never recall it as a whole but only as disjointed images, sounds and sensations: Benech’s shrill cry, the red flower that bloomed on his chest, the cavern of his open mouth, the sickness at the pit of my stomach. Despite the apparent confusion, I made sure not to leave traces that revealed my identity. I waited to see whether Benech’s scream had alerted the neighbours, but I suspected that the man had few if any friends and that no one would have taken the trouble to check on him.

When I left, I remembered to lock the door.

My temporary refuge was to be the farm where Oliver had been taken to that first night after he’d dropped from the sky.

I waited in the Jewish quarter until dark - which being November came blessedly early – then set off in the direction of the farm. I imagined how angry Oliver would have been had he known where I intended to seek sanctuary, but I had reasoned that they wouldn’t look for me there, not yet.

In darkness, the long square building looked sinister and forbidding.

It was obviously deserted, but I didn’t take any chances: I drew out my gun and walked in, stealthily, holding my breath.

I knew the place so well and had been used to find my way around it without a light so I easily found the room I was looking for. I went to the window that gave onto the back courtyard and looked out. There was nothing but open fields and trees and vague shapes of houses in the distance. I slid under the big wooden table then rummaged in my bag and drew out the flask: I took a swig from it and the warmth of the liquor untangled the knot in my belly. 


	33. La Vigie

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> The boys go their separate ways.. but for how long?
> 
> Elio's POV/Oliver's POV

I must have dozed off and in my dreams I was surrounded by Oliver’s naked body; in truth, the scrape of his stubble on my cheek was only the cracked and dusty surface of the floor. I opened my eyes and shut them again, wanting to keep reality at bay for a little longer.

A distant noise, a scrunching of gravel, shook me awake. I waited in utter stillness and after a few moments, there it was, again: the sound of something moving, approaching.

I grabbed my gun and approached the door, standing to the side of it like I’d done in Benech’s apartment. The wait seemed interminable and I could hardly breathe when I saw the door handle being turned. I was ready to shoot when a voice called Oliver’s name in an unmistakable English accent.

“Who are you?” I whispered in his language.

“Bugger,” he swore. “Is that Mr Perlman?”

I flung the door open and came face to face with the man who’d dropped from the sky together with Oliver: Yves.

“I saw the bicycle, I was sure it was him,” he explained later, as we smoked his Virginia cigarettes.

“I thought you’d gone back to England,” I said.

“Long story,” he chuckled. “I screamed and shouted at Oliver for behaving irresponsibly and then I went and did the same. At least that’s what I’ve been accused of.”

“Must be something in the air,” I joked. “Why did you come and look for Oliver?”

“I had a proposition to make to him, to both of you.”

“Both of us?”

“I’m not an idiot, Mr Perlman.”

“Please call me Elio, since you seem to know so much about me.”

He sniggered. “Alright, but I’m afraid I still can’t tell you my real name.”

“Safer that way,” I agreed. “So what’s this proposition?”

“Go to Marseille and see a man called Varian Fry. Ever heard of him?”

I shook my head.

“He’s American and he’s helping Jewish academics and artists obtain visas to leave the country.”

I laughed. “I am not that important.”

“Your father is on his list, among other writers,” he replied.

“I can’t tell you where my father is.”

He blew out a puff of smoke. “And I’m not asking you to,” he said, “But I am sure Fry will do his best to get you a visa.”

I decided to trust him. “Today I’ve killed a man who was collaborating with the Germans.”

Yves was unfazed. “The visa doesn’t have to be legal. Look, he has a network of people working with him and they have been at it since 1940.”

“I don’t want to go to America.”

“Which is where Oliver comes in,” he said, “He’ll vouch for you, if you wish to travel to Britain.”

I sighed. “Oliver is on his way to Juan-les-Pins disguised as a German, with two Jewish children.”

He looked stunned for a second then burst into laughter. “That’ll make for a great story, one day.”

“Let’s hope so,” I replied, “But in the meantime, how do I reach Marseille? Trains will be under surveillance and---”

“I found you a car,” he interjected. “An old banger, to tell the truth, but it does the job. It’s about five hours to Marseille. If you leave now, you’ll be there before dawn.”

“And what about Oliver,” I enquired.

He shrugged. “You can get in touch with him once you are there; it’ll be less dangerous for sure.”

I stubbed out my cigarette. “How long do you think we have?”

“From what I’ve heard through the grapevine: a week, at most. After that, you’ll be an occupied country.”

I was sure he was right.

“Have you met this Varian Fry?”

“Only once: wears a bow tie, speaks French and German and has a remarkable poker face.”

“Sounds like the kind of man my father would enjoy meeting.”

Yves had not been exaggerating: the car was a decrepit Mathis with rusty paintwork, which took several minutes to get going.

“He’s at the Hôtel Splendide,” were his last words before he disappeared into the night.

***

“Elio is not coming is he?” said Julien, as he bit off a morsel of bread and cheese. “We’ll never see him again.”

He said it with a sort of ferocious satisfaction, which made me wince. I caught a glimpse of my tense face in the rear-view mirror and tried to school my features into something less stern. We were close to Montepellier and to the sea: I could already smell the clean, salty air. It was mild, hotter than it had been in Lavaurette and all of a sudden I felt the need to bathe in the warm waters of the Mediterranean.

The sign for Cap d’Agde dispelled the last of my reservations: the name was reminiscent of Ygdrasil, the mythological tree that holds heaven and hell together. It had a mysterious, inviting ring to it.

“What do you say to a swim in the sea?” I asked, smiling.

Julien’s eyes brightened and Jacob removed his thumb from his mouth and shouted his approval at my suggestion.

The beach was called Rochelongue and was a vast expanse of fine sand fringed with rows of maritime pines and short palm trees.

A path made of wooden slats - corroded by the elements – led to the sea but stopped short next to a clump of red and white huts.

The boys were barefoot and were enjoying the feel of the warm sand on their skin.

“It’s wet,” Jacob screamed when he reached the shoreline.

His brother rolled his eyes at him. “Of course it’s wet,” he muttered. “It’s because of the tides.”

I removed my shoes and socks and dipped my toes in the water: it was lukewarm, nothing like the chilly Atlantic I was used to.

“Can you swim?” I asked the kids. Julien shook his head but Jacob was staring wide-eyed at a gleaming pink shell he’d stepped on.

I cleaned it and pressed the whorled side to his ear. “Listen,” I said.

“I don’t hear anything,” he protested.

“Close your eyes.”

He did as told and after a while a beaming smile lit up his face.

“It says: uuuhhh uuuhhh”

“Yes,” I returned his smile and lifted him up, so that he could sit on my shoulders.

I took a few steps until the water slapped at my ankles. Julien was ambling along the shore, bending down from time to time to pick up shells and other small objects. I followed him, inhaling gusts of that deliciously iodine-filled air.

“You said Elio was gonna be here,” Jacob said, his tiny fist clasping my hair.

“He couldn’t, it wasn’t safe,” I replied. “But he will be with us soon.”

“But he won’t see my shells,” he complained. “And Julien is very angry. Maybe he won’t forgive him.”

“We’ll keep the shells to show Elio,” I said. “And of course Julien will forgive him.”

“He wants Papa and Maman to come back.”

I cleared my throat and swallowed a couple of time. “And you don’t?”

“I don’t know,” he said, scratching my scalp. “They have been away for so long. And I like you too; you and Elio; we could all live together, maybe.”

“Maybe,” I smiled, even though he couldn’t see it. “But one thing is sure: Elio and I will take care of you. And if your parents come back, they will find you all grown up and fat like little piggies.”

He shrieked. “I am not a piggy, I am not!”

I kneeled down and let him slide down back to the ground. I tickled his sides until he was screaming and crying with laughter. Julien was looking at us with mock-disdain, but his lips were twitching.

“I’m going to teach you how to swim,” I said, and the smile finally reached his eyes.

As the afternoon drew to a close, and the children were asleep on the back-seats of the car, I allowed myself to think of Elio. I daydreamed of his naked body, of his silky skin and the sprinkle of freckles on his nose; of his smell and his taste and the darkness in his eyes just before he came. I grew hard just imagining all of it and had to pinch my thigh in order to cool down. I had taken the least beaten track to avoid eventual road-blocks, but soon I’d have to face the scrutiny of the high society that usually resided at Juan-les-pins and that worried me greatly.

I doubted anyone would be taken in by my flimsy disguise and what if Florence didn’t remember me or, worse, what if she did and wanted nothing to do with me? There was also the possibility that she might be elsewhere: after all, she was the wife of a millionaire who had homes scattered all over the world. The villa on the coast was one of them, but I had no reason to expect that she’d have chosen that over Paris. Samuel was convinced she had and I trusted him, but still it felt like a big risk to take, especially for the children. There was nothing for it now: it was done and I’d have to deal with the consequences.

It was approaching nine when we arrived at La Vigie.

I had expected a Palladian-style mansion and was delighted to find a medium-sized Sienna-hued castle with arches and turrets.

“Stay here,” I ordered the boys, who were drowsy from the journey. “If you lie down, no one will see you. I’ll be back as soon as I can.”

Juan-les-Pins seemed as remote from the war as Jupiter: it was quietly patrician and its elegant buildings and well-tended gardens were untouched by chaos and bombs.

I drew a deep breath and made my way to the grated archway that opened into the cloistered court.

I rang the bell and waited, and once again I was to be surprised: it wasn’t a maid that came to receive me, but Florence herself.

She hadn’t changed much, except for her hair which was cut shoulder length and wavy. Her voice when she spoke was lower-pitched than I recalled.

“Oliver,” she murmured, and threw her long slender arms around me. “I am so glad you came.”

I was left speechless by her greeting.

“Where are the others?” she enquired, after a while.

“The children are in the car,” I replied. “I wonder if I could park it in your garage.”

She became the practical hostess at the snap of a finger.

“Yes, it’s over there,” she indicated a green-painted gate. “I’ll open it for you.”

The children were as awe-struck as I was at the beauty of the gardens: the shrubs, the flower-beds, the potted plants, the rockery, the fountains; my puny efforts at Le Domaine seemed even more ludicrous by contrast.

I had not paid attention to Florence’s clothes but I realised, as she stood on the gravel path waiting for us to get out of the car, that I hadn’t seen any man or woman dressed with the same careless chic since before the war.

She hadn’t commented about my German uniform but she remarked that the children needed garments more suitable to the Mediterranean weather.

The conversation was surreal, but I didn’t want to point that out in the company of Julien and Jacob.

“We don’t want to cause you any trouble,” I said.

“No trouble at all,” she replied, “I had guests until a week ago.”

She touched the piping of my jacket. “They left for Vichy,” she went on. “There is to be some sort of parade, I gathered.”

“And you got my letter?”

She nodded. “Luckily, I have friends in high places or it would have taken a lot longer.”

She let us into her house from the open French windows: we found ourselves into a spacious salon that contained, among other furnishings, a Steinway grand piano.

Julien looked at it then at me but avoided Florence’s eyes.

“He plays,” I said.

She spoke to him like to an adult. “You can try it tomorrow,” she said. “Now it’s time for bed.”

He nodded and hid behind me. Jacob was already asleep in my arms.

Later, we had drinks on the terrace. I had changed into my own clothes and felt like a different man. After the second Martini, I felt daring enough to ask the question that was burning on my tongue.

“How is Armand?”

She glared at me. “Why, he’s dead, didn’t you know?”


	34. Dina

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Elio gets into trouble and Oliver finds out about Armand
> 
> Warning for mentions of suicide.
> 
> Elio's POV/Oliver's POV

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Dina Vierny is a real person and she really was Matisse's model

My luck ran out as I approached Narbonne.

The jagged spires of the gothic cathedral gleamed white in the distance or perhaps it was only my overactive imagination.

Hours of anxious solitude had forced me to ruminate about my actions of the previous day and I was slowly coming to terms with the fact that I’d killed a man in cold blood. I wasn’t sorry but I was appalled that it had been so easy.

Papa would have applied the balm of philosophy but only Oliver would truly understand my state of mind.

The car jolted on like a drunkard and I was terrified that it would grind to a halt but it wasn’t the Mathis that cut my journey short; I was debating whether to take a coastal road when a police car barred the way and forced me to stop.

Two gendarmes and a plain-clothed official walked towards me; I saw them in slow-motion and felt as though my blood had turned to ice.

“Documents,” asked one of the gendarmes. He had a pencil thin moustache that made him look young and cruel.

I handed him my driving licence, identity card and ration book.

“Your name is foreign,” he said, “According to the decree of 4th October 1940, you should have been interned.”

“I am French, born and bred here,” I replied, “Like it says on the card.”

“Jewish,” remarked the one in plain clothes, “And without the requisite star.”

“I am not Jewish,” I argued. “That’s why I don’t have one.”

The second gendarme was a burly type with an acne-scarred face and a bored expression.

“Let’s bring him in,” he ordered. “We can keep him a couple of days and send him to Camp des Milles later.”

“You have no right to arrest me,” I snapped. “I haven’t done anything wrong.”

The bored one laughed and shook his head. “If you are Jewish, you are not complying with the law. We’ll see who’s wrong or right.”

I thought about my gun stored in the glove compartment of the car, but I couldn’t bring myself to reach for it.

They yanked me out of the car and the young gendarme took my place behind the wheel. The frisked me and once satisfied that I was unarmed, pushed me into the back of their Citroën.

“We don’t need to cuff you do we,” the burly one said, raising a thick eyebrow.

“I trust the law to be on my side,” I replied, and he snorted.

We drove in silence for a couple of miles until we reached the Gendarmerie.

It was a long square red-brick building which appeared to be of recent construction. It was ugly and utilitarian, without the least concession to beauty.

“They are crushing the French soul,” I murmured.

“What?” asked the plain-clothed one.

“I’m an architect,” I explained. “That monstrosity saddens me.”

He huffed, “Not important.”

“I disagree,” I insisted. “What would France be without its artists and its poets?”

“Germany seems to be doing just fine,” said the burly one.

“The day they started burning books was the day they lost the war.”

Both men laughed.

They threw me into a cell already occupied by an elderly man. His grey hair was wavy and thick and he wore an oversized grey sweater and trousers frayed at the hem.

He didn’t raise his head from the notebook on which he was writing something with a short pencil.

I sat on my bunk and fished out my pack of cigarettes.

“Want one?” I asked him.

“In a minute,” he replied.

When he was done, he shut the pad and slid it under the pile of unclean linen that served as a pillow.

He accepted my offer and we smoked in silence for a short while.

“How long have you been here?” I enquired.

“Two days, I think,” he replied. “Time becomes sort of elusive when you are in prison. The next thing you are going to ask is why I am in here. I am waiting for a certificate to prove that I am not Jewish.”

I nodded.

“It’s not likely to make any difference,” he went on. “They have to meet their quotas and we are already here.”

I knew that he was right and in my case, once they’d found out that I had most probably murdered a man, my fate would be sealed. I didn’t want to think about the death that awaited me so I engaged him in conversation. His name was Charles Levade and he was a painter. I had heard about him: he was a portraitist who mainly depicted female nudes.

“My son left France as soon as the war started,” he explained. “He went to Lisbon and from there to the States. He’s in South America now, married to a local woman. He wanted me to go with him but I didn’t want to leave my beloved home.”

I told him about myself and my father, but didn’t say anything about Oliver and the children, or about my part in the Maquis.

“I was going to visit Matisse,” he laughed, like after a brilliant joke. “And I walked into their trap.”

“They have spies everywhere,” I said. “Did you correspond by letter?”

“I telephoned him,” he replied. “Would they intercept his calls?”

“He’s one of our most celebrated artists,” I exclaimed. “Of course they’d keep an eye on his frequentations.”

We chatted some more until I felt my eyes close of their own accord.

“You need to sleep,” he said, and so I did.

Another day passed and the second morning the burly gendarme, whose name was Jolivet, came to inform us that we’d be sent to the Camp des Milles with the next train-load of prisoners, which was due to arrive the following afternoon.

I protested and was repaid with a violent slap to the side of my face which left a bruise on the skin and on my ego.

“We are going to escape,” I said to Levade, “Once we are out of here, we’ll find a way.”

He gave me a little sad smile and went back to his drawings.

Early that evening, we heard a commotion and the voice of a woman uttering a string of insults.

“I have a letter from the General himself,” she cried. “I’ll have you shot if you don’t let him go.”

Jolivet came in followed by a tall and curvy young woman with a heart-shaped face and black hair arranged in a twist braid worn around her head.

Levade’s face brightened and he sprang up with the agility of a much younger man.

“Dinotchka!” he greeted her. “What is Aphrodite doing in this hovel?”

The woman, who looked more like Artemis than Venus, strode up to the bars of our cell and inserted a plump white hand between them. Levade took it in his and bent down to kiss her fingers.

“Henri was in a rage when he found out,” she replied. “He wrote to everybody.” She eyed the gendarme with contempt. “As soon as this man obeys his orders, I’ll tell you the whole story.”

Levade turned towards me. “This is my great friend and favourite model.”

“Dina Vierny,” the woman said, with a dazzling smile. I told her my name and she frowned, as though she was reminded of something.

“I wish you could come with us,” Levade said, regarding me with sadness.

“Why do I know your name?” Dina asked me.

I wanted to tell her about my father but I didn’t wish Jolivet to hear about him.

The latter was getting impatient, so I hugged Levade and he wished me good luck.

As they were leaving, Dina turned towards me and winked.

***

I regained consciousness with a jolt.

“What have you given me?” I whined. I was lying on what was probably an original Aubusson while Florence was sitting on a low stool, holding a glass phial in her hands.

“Good old-fashioned smelling salts,” she replied. “I have always wanted to use them on someone. I bought them in Grasse when corsets came back in fashion.”

That sounded more like the Florence I’d used to know. That reminded me of Armand and I shut my eyes to fight back the pain.

“Why did you think I’d know that he was dead?” I asked.

I heard the sound of her footsteps and when I looked, I saw her approach with two glasses of liquor.

“Whisky,” she said, placing one beside me. I sat up and gulped down my drink in one go.

“I was sure he’d written to you.”

“He never wrote; he didn't know where I was anyway.”

She stood and turned her back to me.

“I’ve always believed it was my fault,” she said, in a low and urgent tone. “Maybe you’ve forgotten but I used to mock him a lot. It was all harmless fun, I thought. He was too sensitive, that’s what everybody said. You were less fragile, you didn’t care as much.”

“I cared a lot more than I let on,” I replied, coldly.

She sighed. “Back then I didn’t think so.”

“What did he do?” I asked, dreading the answer.

Florence poured more whisky then joined me on the Aubusson.

Now that she was close I could see the tracery of tiny lines at the corner of her eyes. Her skin was otherwise flawless but it lacked the glow of Elio's. I couldn’t think of him or I’d start to scream.

“Four years after you’d gone, almost to the day,” he voice broke. “It was the hottest month of July on record.”

“Yes, I remember,” I replied. “It was the same in England.”

She nodded slowly.

“It was almost impossible to sleep inside the house, even with the windows open. Armand was always spending his nights outside, so we weren’t worried when he didn’t come to breakfast one morning. But the day went on and there was no sign of him.”

Her nails were digging into her palms.

“I found him,” she whispered. “In the attic, hanging from a beam,” she sobbed and a shudder went through her. “Oh it was so horrible; I will never forget it for as long as I live.”

I enclosed her in my arms and waited for the tears to subside. I was too shocked to cry. I knew that it would come later, when I was alone.

“He didn’t leave a note,” she continued, her head on my shoulder. “Not a word of explanation, nothing; Mother went nearly crazy with grief and that was when Father decided to take us to America. He couldn’t bear to go on living in the same house, in the same country---”

“Had Armand been depressed?”

I felt he shake her head.

“He was always the same,” she replied, softly. “Beautiful, even as other kids his age were covered in spots and growing too fat or too skinny.”

“Did he,” I hesitated for a beat or two, “Did he prefer boys to girls?”

She laughed, a bitter, shrill thing.

“Don’t be so cautious,” she replied. “I am not that girl any longer. Yes, I’ve always believed he was queer, but I can’t say I had proof of it. He never seemed to form any other attachment, after you. He had friends but they came and went; no one stuck around.”

“And school?”

“He was doing brilliantly,” she said. “And without much of an effort; I used to be so jealous of him, and I joked about him liking boys---”

She let out a prolonged groan. “I was always throwing hints, remember?”

“You were only a kid yourself.”

“I was old enough to know that it was wrong.”

“You couldn’t have known how much he resented it,” I said. “And you can’t be sure that he did what he did since he gave no explanation. It could have been for a number of reasons.”

“I was hoping you would know,” she murmured. “That one day you’d get in touch and tell me all about it.”

“Perhaps he was too good for this world,” I replied. “Isn’t it what it is said of those who die young? I’ve always believed it a platitude but seeing the times we live in, maybe there’s more than a grain of truth in that.”

“He would have never had gone to war,” I went on.

She agreed. “I doubt he’d have stayed in France. Maybe he’d have tried to find you.”

“Find me,” I said. “That would have been hard even for him.”


	35. Escape

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> On this blessed day of Zeffirelli and his crazy hair, here comes the new chapter.
> 
> Elio's POV/Oliver's POV

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Daniel is Daniel Bénédite and most of what I wrote about him is true.

I had been hoping that Dina would come back for me; instead, it was a new face - that of a gnarled, flinty-eyed gendarme named Flores - which put me out of my misery.

“Perlman,” he said, “We’ve heard from Lavaurette.”

I resisted the impulse to bite my lips.

“Turns out we have a probable murderer on our hands,” he continued, his thin lips twisted in the parody of a smile. “I’ll drive you to the Camp des Milles myself.”

“Am I not entitled to legal representation?” I asked, as firmly as I could.

He sniggered, “Waste of time.”

I had barely time to pack my bag before I was cuffed and manhandled on board a police car.

It was the end, I thought: I’d never come out of it alive.

The journey was short yet also endless: I saw every detail with exceptional clarity and even the ugliest house and comeliest woman appeared unique to my desperate gaze. How could I part with any of this forever?

I tried not to think of Oliver; I was saving that until the very last, when the memories of our days together would be consolation and not unbearable pain.

Camp des Milles had been a school. The red-brick building was several stories high and fronted by a large courtyard that was now swarming with life.

The tall iron gates were topped by spikes and barbed wire.

Two men in French uniform approached our car as soon we arrived.

They confabulated with Flores and, to my surprise, walked with him towards the left-hand side of the building, leaving me there alone.

I was observing the sorting of prisoners – mothers being separated from children, men from women, the crippled from the able-bodied – with mounting horror, when the car door was yanked open and a man in a doctor’s white coat ordered me to get out.

“Quick, before they close the gates,” he hissed.

“They will notice the handcuffs,” I hissed back.

Without further ado, he pushed me towards the exit, his expression one of utter contempt. No one stopped us, and I assumed he had chosen his moment well since a couple of trucks filled with prisoners had distracted the guards and made our departure less conspicuous.

Outside, a car of German make was waiting for us. As soon as we got in, it sped away.

“Who are you?” I asked of the “doctor”, who had shrugged off his coat and replaced it with a navy-blue jacket.

“Daniel,” he replied, with a smile. He was young, I realised, not older than thirty, with a silly little brush of a moustache and square black-rimmed glasses.

The man driving the car was older, with greying hair and veined hands; he didn’t speak and I didn’t care to interrogate him.

“Where are you taking me?” I asked Daniel.

“Somewhere safe,” he replied. “In case you are wondering, you owe your rescue to Dina. She remembered your name because she met your father at a soirée in Paris.”

“You cut it really fine,” I scoffed, as relief flooded my stomach, making me feel hungry for the first time in days.

“We knew Flores could be bought off,” he explained. “We had to wait for him to come on shift. Since you escaped from the camp, the blame won’t be placed on him.”

“Do you do that a lot?”

“Quite,” he replied, shaking two cigarettes out of a squashy pack, “Been doing it for over a year.”

He made use of a brushed-silver lighter and I managed to smoke despite my trapped hands.

“It beats going to war,” he continued. “Not that I’ve refrained from shooting people when I had to, but France and I are not in agreement as to who the enemy is.”

“I have shot someone too,” I blurted out, feeling like an idiot soon after. I needn’t have.

“So I have heard,” he replied, “I’m sure you had your reasons.”

“He was after two children I care about.”

“Jewish, I suppose.”

He was easy to talk to, like a priest in a confessional.

“Yes,” I said, “And you?”

“Protestant,” he said, with a playful grimace. “Or was, I should say; more of an atheist these days. I was working at the Préfecture in Paris before the war, that’s how I know Flores.”

“Were you sacked?”

He chuckled. “I jumped before I was pushed,” he replied. “I’m too left-wing to be a policeman.”

This information jogged my memory; nothing too precise, but I recalled having heard of someone who’d written for _Masses_ who’d also been part of the establishment.

“I used to live in Paris too,” I said, “We moved because of the occupation,” I glanced at his earnest eyes behind the thick lenses and tried my luck. “You were with the SFIO, I bet.”

He nodded. “Small world,” he commented. “Dina told me your father is a philosopher. We’ll need his sort once this disgusting mess is over. Are you an artist too?”

“Only an architect,” I replied, and then with a twinge of vanity added, “But I can play the piano.”

“Pablo Casals is in Marseille,” he said, in a casual manner. “Have you heard of him?”

“The greatest living cellist? Yes, I _may_ have heard him mentioned.”

He took my spent cigarette and threw it out of the window.

“Look at us, chatting away like a couple of old friends,” he remarked.

“You still haven’t said where you are taking me, _old friend_.”

“It’s no secret,” he replied. “There’s this place outside Marseille. I found it for Varian: it’s called Villa Air-Bel.”

“Wait, you mean Varian, as in Varian Fry?”

“The very same,” he replied, frowning. “Why, what’s the problem?”

I laughed. “No problem at all,” I said, “I guess it’s true what they say, that all roads lead to Rome. In this case, Fry is my Eternal City.”

“I’ll tell him that you called him that,” he guffawed. “He’ll get what he calls ‘a right kick’ out of it.”

The sudden noise made me jump: it was the driver: the old man was cackling like a mad hen.

***

I spent a troubled night, plagued by anxious dreams I could not remember upon waking. The unfamiliar room had me puzzled for a moment, until reality rushed back to me in the shape of a very determined Julien.

The boy was sitting on my bed and yanking the sleeve of my pyjama.

“What is it?” I asked, groggily.

“I’m hungry,” he replied, without looking me in the eye. Unfortunately, he’d had some experience in going hours without food so I knew that he was lying.

“Go back to your room,” I said, “I’ll be with you in ten minutes. Is your brother awake?”

He nodded, but didn’t get up to leave. I looked at him arching my eyebrows and he stared intently at the bed-covers, his lips working as though he was about to cry.

“I can’t help you if you won’t tell me what’s wrong,” I said, brushing a lock of hair from his forehead.

“It’s just,” he stammered then said, in one breath, “Are you getting together with this lady? What about Elio?”

I didn’t know whether to laugh or cry.

“This lady – her name is Madame Florence Gould - is married already,” I replied, cradling Julien’s face within my hands. “Elio knows that we are here and he’ll get in touch as soon as he can. We won’t move from here until he does.”

“And if he doesn’t?”

“We’ll go look for him and bring him back.”

He thought about it for a second or two then asked. “Do I call her Madame Gould?”

“I’m sure she’ll be happy with Madame Florence, to start with,” I replied, kissing him on the tip of his nose. “Now go before your brother wonders whether you’ve abandoned him. Ten minutes, alright?”

“Alright,” he agreed, and ran out of the room.

The dining room at La Vigie would have made Elio’s professional eye quiver with pleasure: the black lacquer furniture was exquisite and the paintings that adorned the white-washed walls were stunning. One was unmistakably a Chagall and the other, bigger in size and unframed, was a Gauguin.

Florence, dressed in yellows and purples, seemed to match the hues of the latter.

“Here you are,” she beamed, as we approached the table, which was laden with food. “There is a bit of everything, since I don’t know what you like.”

Jacob was undecided between shyness and greed, but his hunger won the match.

“Cake,” he cried, “I want cake!”

Julien rolled his eyes and pretended to want nothing to do with his sibling.

“You sound like Marie Antoinette,” joked Florence.

“Is she your friend?” asked Jacob, distractedly.

His brother sighed noisily. “No, you plum, she was our Queen, the one that got her head chopped off.”

“Am not a plum,” Jacob protested.

“Right, enough with this you two,” I intervened, “Let’s have a nice and quiet breakfast.”

Once Jacob was lustily involved with the apple tart and Julien was trying out the various jams, I asked Florence about her husband.

“He’s my second by the way,” she announced with a rakish grin. “Frank’s gone back to the Motherland. He isn’t Jewish but his name sounds a lot like one of them, so when they offered us boat tickets to the US, he waited until the last possible minute.”

“Wise decision,” I commented, as I sipped the deliciously strong coffee.

“I stayed to keep an eye on his properties,” she explained. “The way things are going, the Germans would have stolen them from him with the excuse that he was Jewish even if he’s not. I have friends, like I said, and they won’t let that happen.”

“I see,” I commented.

She laughed. “Please don’t tell me you are a prude,” she said. “See that painting over there?” she indicated the Gauguin. “It would be now property of the ERR if I hadn’t acquired a few well-placed connections.”

“And do your... connections come and visit you here? I don’t wish to cause you any trouble.”

“You speak impeccable French and you look like a German, besides being dressed as one. What was that about?”

I shot a glance at the boys. “Long and complicated story,” I replied. “I’ll tell you later. Still, I am not too keen on meeting more of them, if you see what I mean.”

“You wouldn’t mind Gerhard,” she argued, with a twinkle in her eye. “He’s one of the good guys.”

“How good can he be?”

“He saved hundreds of book from being burned,” she replied and then bent down to whisper in my ear. “His lover is a married writer named Marcel.”

I coughed, attracting Julien’s attention.

“Nothing to worry about,” I said to him. “The coffee went down the wrong way.”

Florence sniggered. “That’s exactly what happens,” she said, and when I glared at her, she shrugged prettily. “Quoi? It’s funny, non?”

Later, a tiny and very loud Pekingese that answered to the name of Tully made sure we wouldn’t see the boys until it was time for lunch. They fell immediately in love with the dog and were noisily reciprocated.

Florence and I went out in the garden. On the Riviera, November was still late summer. I inhaled the scent of the roses and wondered how damp and foggy it must be in London.

“Tell me about your friend,” she said, while we were sitting on a bench overlooking an Italianate fountain.

“Elio is,” my voice broke, “I don’t know what’s happened after we parted. He should have been here already, had everything gone to plan.”

She didn’t offer any soothing platitude.

“He’s part-Jewish,” I went on. “They will send him away if they catch him.”

“What about his family?”

“His father’s somewhere in the countryside, not sure where,” I half-lied, “His mother’s dead.”

“One person’s easy to deal with,” she said.

“How do you mean?”

“I mean that we can pretend the kids are yours. They are fair like you. Elio will have to hide but one is less complicated than three.”


	36. Up at the Villa

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Elio meets Mary-Jayne Gold, a true-blue F. Scott. Fitzgerald-type heiress. These women kicked serious ass and we should celebrate them more instead of making war films about men. End of the lecture ha ha
> 
> Elio's POV/Oliver's POV

The villa Air-Bel was not unlike Le Domaine, but larger in size and painted a dirty shade of Sienna. A low brick wall separated the main building from the park that surrounded it.

From a distance, and even as we approached it, it seemed solitary and empty.

Daniel eyed me keenly and said, “Most of our guests have gone. Willy left last week to stay with some friends. It’s too dangerous now to linger in one place, unless one wishes to be found.”

“Am I supposed not to ask who Willy is?”

“You won’t know him,” he replied. “Maywald, a German fashion photographer.”

My expression made him laugh.

“I see that you are a snob as well as a fighter.”

“I thought Fry’s list only included artists and academics.”

He laughed even louder.

“I can’t wait for you to meet Mary-Jayne,” he said, wiping his eyes with a white handkerchief.

“Is she a fashion model?”

“Make sure to tell her that.”

I started to think that these people weren’t taking the situation seriously; that maybe they were in it just for the fun of it. Either way, it didn’t matter: if they succeeded in helping people to safety, their motives were hardly relevant.

We drove the car into what must have been the old stables, when the owners of Air-Bel surely must have kept horses.

In the next bay was a Phantom Rolls Royce, polished and gleaming.

“Whose is that?” I asked.

He arched one eyebrow and lighted another cigarette.

When we got to the villa, a woman with ash-blond hair emerged from it, her mouth pinched with worry.

“Was everything okay?” she asked, in foreign-accented French.

“Yes, my dear,” Daniel replied, kissing her on the cheek. “My wife Theo,” he said, “And this is Elio Perlman.” We shook hands. “Are you American?” I asked, to which she replied that she was British.

I was ushered into a cluttered salon furnished with a mix and match of furniture, including the cretonne-upholstered sofa on which a young woman was lying while reading a newspaper. She had wavy hair and prominent cheek-bones. Her eyes assessed me with frankness.

“You look like you need a lie-down and plenty of food,” she concluded, throwing the paper on the floor and walking towards me.

“Mary-Jayne,” she announced, grasping my hand in hers, “But it’s a mouthful so you can call me MJ.” I told her who I was but she was gone before I could say more than my name.

“Sit down,” Theo said, indicating the dining table. “I’ll bring you something to eat.”

In the meantime, Daniel had disappeared, as though he didn’t want to interfere.

I was too tired and hungry to protest, so I waited in silence, glad that I was finally at liberty to do so.

This state of limbo didn’t last for long. MJ returned carrying a plate of sausages with mashed potatoes in one hand and a bottle of wine in the other.

She deposited them on the table in front of me then extracted cutlery and glasses from an inlaid mahogany display cabinet.

“Drink,” she ordered, once she’d poured the red Cabernet into two glasses. We both took a sip then she heaved a sigh and gestured towards the food.

I devoured the first sausage while she went back to reading the paper she’d discarded. Only after I’d sated the worst of my hunger, she accepted to converse with me.

“Dina told us about you. What happened to your father?”

I hesitated. “Don’t say anything,” she exclaimed. “Never mind me, sometimes I ask the stupidest questions. What’s the first thing you need to do, aside from using the bathroom, that is?”

I cleared my throat and drank some more wine before replying.

“There’s this friend,” I said, “I have to find out whether he’s staying with Madame Gould on the Riviera.”

“Dear old Florence,” she exclaimed. “We rich American girls must stick together. But of course we’ll go. I’ll take you in my car. Oh, how I wish I could still fly my darling little plane.”

“You are a pilot?”

“Don’t act so surprised,” she chided, “I’m a woman not an idiot.”

I felt myself blush. “I didn’t mean it like that.”

“All the same, I did and I wish I could again, but this devil of a war has made it impossible.”

“It must be a wonderful feeling, all alone in the clouds, like a bird.”

She nodded. “It’s scary and exhilarating,” she explained. “If I were a man, I’d be a fighter pilot.”

I thought of Peter and the next words came out before I could stop them.

“You must have met a few, I suppose.”

“Not that many,” she replied, “Mostly British officers that we smuggled outside the country.”

I knot formed in my chest.

“Does the name Gregory mean anything to you?”

MJ became guarded.

“I’m not sure why you are asking,” she said, not meeting my eyes.

“I have heard of him from that friend I told you about.”

She bit her lips. “Friend,” she repeated, as though savouring the word. “All right, I’ll take you to him and we’ll see, once I have spoken to him personally.”

She met my gaze and shrugged. “One can never be too careful, I’m sure you understand that, don’t you?”

“Aren’t you afraid we are going to be stopped by the police? I’m a wanted man and just escaped from an internment camp.”

She snorted and rubbed her thumb and forefinger together. “Money, my dear, can buy you many things, including temporary invisibility.”

I had asked about meeting Varian Fry, but he was busy in Marseilles and wouldn’t be back until the following day, when I would be already reunited with Oliver.

MJ wanted to leave as soon as possible, in order to reduce my stay at Air-Bel to the point that it would be virtually undetectable.

“You’ll need clothes,” she said, and she was right since I’d left my bag in the police car and had on me only my papers, a folded map of France, and my hip-flask.

She took me to a bedroom on the first floor and threw open an armoire stuffed with all manner of garments. On one side was a shoe-rack laden with boots in various sizes.

“I’ll go find you a rucksack,” she said, “And a spare toothbrush. I trust Florence will provide the rest.”

I chose two outfits and put aside a third to wear after I’d washed.

I was immersed in bergamot-scented water when I finally let go of all my tension. At first, I was merely sluggish and heavy but then my blood caught up with the notion that I would be touching Oliver soon and my skin prickled with the desire to be brushing against his. My dick swelled but I ignored it in favour of sponging the dirt off my body. I scrubbed my hair clean and when I went downstairs to look for MJ, I felt like a new man.

Daniel was in the salon with her, and they were discussing, of all things, plants.

He was designing a garden for the villa and she was giving him suggestions as to what should be planted and where. That too reminded me of Oliver and of our days together at Le Domaine; I was so impatient to see him that I wanted to scream.

Daniel was the first to spot me. “Mary told me that she’s taking you away already.”

She made a face when he said her name thus abbreviated.

“It’s the best solution,” she intervened. “He knows where his friend is, but not the other way round. I’m sure Elio won’t leave France without his nearest and dearest.”

He stood and came up to me.

“We’ll be here when you need us,” he said, “But do not telephone or write: just turn up, day or night.”

MJ put on a cloche hat and a pair of driving gloves.

“Time to hit the road,” she announced.

I shook Daniel’s hand, grabbed my rucksack and followed MJ out the door.

***

That night, Florence had invited a German engineer named Ludwig Vogel to dine with us. He worked for Focke-Wulf, the aircraft manufacturer, and moved in Luftwaffe circles. The children were having their dinner early and I had ordered Julien to keep an eye on his brother and make sure he didn’t leave their room.

Vogel was a close acquaintance, Florence explained, but I suspected that he was one of her lovers.

“Are you sure that it’s a good idea?” I’d asked when she told me.

“What better way to test your credibility as an old friend of mine?” she had replied with one of those winsome smiles that pre-empted any objection.

The boys had taken Tully up to their bedroom and were trying to teach him to roll-over, with little success.

I was postponing the talk I was to have with them, the one that Florence had insisted I should have as soon as possible.

“If they have to pass for your sons, they’ll have to call you Papa,” she’d said. “Oliver is much too formal. No French kid would call their father by their first name. This isn’t Oxford.”

“It’s just that they have been through so much,” I’d replied. “And having to ask them to lie about their parents is so cruel---”

She’d patted my hand, but I knew that she was right.

I watched them as they played with the little puppy and couldn’t find the words. Tomorrow, I told myself, I’ll do it tomorrow.

Vogel had been warned of my presence but I could tell that he wasn’t too happy of finding me there. He kissed Florence’s hand and shook mine with a tad too much vigour. He was shorter than me and dressed in civilian clothes. There was nothing remarkable about his appearance aside from his pale grey eyes that looked almost silver by candle-light. He spoke French with the usual clipped German accent but he was fluent and made no mistakes.

“How long have you two known each other?” he asked, as we drank our aperitifs.

“Absolute ages,” Florence replied, using her socialite tone of voice, which was a little higher than her usual pitch. “I won’t tell you how long because it makes me feel decrepit.”

Vogel paid her a compliment then turned his steely gaze on me.

“I was a friend of the family,” I explained, “Before they moved to the States.”

“And what brings you here?” he enquired. Why not in the trenches, was the unspoken question; I could have asked the same of him, but I didn’t want to antagonise him.

“My heart is defective,” I replied. “Florence kindly invited me over for a few days.”

“Sorry to hear that,” Vogel said, sounding anything but sorry. “I’m certain you’ll find a way to serve your country.”

Florence’s maid came in to announce that dinner was served.

I had managed to survive through the ordeal of that evening without getting drunk or spitting in the face of our German guest, but I’d been tense all through it.

Luckily for me, Vogel didn’t pay me much attention after that first attempt at a third degree. He was too intent in courting Florence to notice me and I spent much of the time eating, drinking and trying to keep a neutral expression on my face.

We were about to go out on the terrace when we heard the doorbell ring.

Vogel looked at Florence, who shook her head and smiled. “I am not expecting anyone, but you know how it is.”

The German evidently did know because he smirked and didn’t seem too concerned.

The maid came in, evidently puzzled.

“A Madame Duval,” she said, “She’d like to have a word with you.”

Florence followed her without hesitation and closed the door of the salon behind her.

“A remarkable woman,” Vogel said. “She could have gone to the States with her husband but decided to stay here. Very brave, don’t you think?”

“Indeed,” I concurred. “How did you get to know her?”

“In Paris,” he replied, “Her parties used to be very popular; frequented by a variety of interesting people.”

“Jewish too, I imagine.”

“I won’t deny it,” he said, “I’m not the one who writes our laws. I merely design planes.”

I was pondering my repartee when Florence returned.

“A friend,” she explained. “She’s on her way to Antibes and stopped to say hello. I’d have invited her in but she didn’t want to intrude.”

Vogel sighed. “Antibes, what a beautiful place.”

Soon after that, I left Florence and Vogel alone and went upstairs to check on the boys. They were fast asleep and Tully was curled on the rug between their beds.

I went to brush my teeth and to prepare for the night and was yawning by the time I entered the bedroom.

The first thing that greeted me was a strange smell, like Earl Grey tea, and then a hand was pressed to my lips, tight, to prevent me from screaming.

“What the---” I mumbled, as I tried to turn round and face my assailant.

In front of me, dressed in clothes I’d never seen him wear before, stood Elio.


	37. Sweet Tea

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Elio and Oliver... reunite.
> 
> Mind the high levels of smut and fluff
> 
> Oliver's POV/Elio's POV

His lips replaced his fingers and his tongue slipped inside my mouth: the familiarity of it all undid me even more than the relief of having Elio back, safe and sound.

He pulled me to him and we tumbled atop the bed, in a heap of tangled limbs.

“Why do you smell like tea?” I asked, breathless, as he nuzzled my neck. I felt the slight tremor of his giggles against my throat.

“And that’s the first thing you want to know?” he mocked. “As it happens, I bathed with bergamot oil.”

“Like some debauched Ancient Roman Empress,” I joked. “Where was that?”

“Can I tell you later?” he murmured, and suppressed a yawn.

“Tired?” I stroked his hair and he melted into me. He was like a second skin, one whose absence had left me flayed and incomplete.

He hummed and I wondered about removing his clothes, but he was already asleep or so I thought because a moment later, his eyes fluttered open.

“I heard yapping earlier,” he said.

“The boys have adopted Florence’s dog,” I explained.

He smiled. “She told me they are doing fine,” he sighed. “I wanted to see them but couldn’t risk making too much noise.”

I kissed the tip of his nose. “They will be so happy to see you.”

This time he couldn’t repress a yawn. “Happy too,” he mumbled, and was gone.

I stared at him for a while, almost dazed with joy, and certain that it would take me hours to fall asleep but his warmth and the comfort of his presence pulled me under in no time.

Hours before dawn, I awoke to an empty bed. The air was scented with bergamot so I knew I couldn’t have been dreaming.

Just as I was about to go looking for him, the door opened.

“I went for a piss,” he said, and a moment later, I had an armful of half-naked Elio.

“Let me warm you up,” I said, rubbing along his back.

“I’m very warm already,” he husked, as he straddled my thighs.

I was still in a dreamy limbo and his hands were between my legs before I realised that I was thrusting into his fist.

“Fuck, but I’ve missed this,” he growled, and I was gasping for air, for words that remained stuck in my throat. He didn’t waste any time: his mouth was on me, the perfect wetness of it, the velvet of his tongue snaking along the shaft and the head of my prick.

“I’m coming,” I moaned, and I couldn’t have held it in for an instant more, not when his cheeks were hollow with how hard he was sucking me. He swallowed it down but some of it loaded with his spit coated my balls and had me twitch with desire. He used his hand to milk me dry then curled it around his thick cock.

“I can return the favour,” I said, but he was too close already. Two strokes were enough to bring him to orgasm; he came all over my chest, hissing with the delight of having marked me with it.

“You won’t leave me again,” I said, in the afterglow. “I won’t allow it.”

“It was touch and go,” he replied. “I could be on a train to Germany as we speak.”

He recounted his adventures, from Benech’s death to his arrival at La Vigie.

“MJ knows something about Peter,” he said, looking me straight in the eye.

It seemed such a long time ago that I’d been Peter’s lover; another era, another Oliver.

“Where has she gone?” I enquired.

“Antibes,” he replied. That much was true, I thought. "She’ll be back tomorrow at lunchtime.” He hesitated before continuing. His fingers were playing with my hair and I was getting increasingly distracted by his proximity.

“What will you do when you find out?”

“I don’t know,” I replied, “I’ll be glad to see him again but it won’t change what’s between us.”

“You can’t be sure of that,” he argued.

I rubbed one of his nipples with the pad of my thumb, watching intently as he writhed and arched his back. I tweaked the other nub and teased it with kitten-licks.

“Are you trying to shut me up?”

“Is it working?”

He snorted a laugh and I resumed my task.

“You have such tight little tits,” I murmured, and he grabbed hold of my head to push it down. We didn’t speak much after that, aside from the occasional expletive or breathy endearment. It was my turn to go down on him and I gobbled him up with violent greed. I wanted him in my throat, while my nose was buried in his crotch and two of my fingers were opening him up, readying him for my cock.

He pulled out on the brink of pleasure, his face flushed with exertion and his dick stiff and drenched.

“You are killing me, Oliver,” he rasped, and before I could think of a reply, he was impaling himself on my length, sinking down in one smooth slide, his face a mask of feral bliss.

“Does it hurt?” I asked, my voice so low I hardly recognised it.

Elio circled his hips and uttered an obscene string of “Ah,” throwing his head back.

I didn’t know where to touch, so I let my hands roam his body, taking possession of every inch of him.

As soon as my fingertips skimmed the base of his prick, he gave a jolt and started riding me like he wanted me to pierce his guts. He rose up and slammed down then he rocked back and forth, his palms digging into my shoulders.

“You’re so fucking big,” he whined, after he’d let me slip out and in again, hard and fast.

I stroked his cock with both hands, twisting them on the upstroke, and Elio growled like a wounded animal. He bent over and let me do the work while he devoured my mouth with sloppy, biting kisses.

I came with his hole masturbating the head of my prick and his tongue down my throat. I felt his hot semen on my belly soon after.

Outside, the sky was tinged with pink.

Before breakfast, I went to check on the children.

They were still in bed, but they were awake and waiting for me. Tully was gone, evidently needing his morning walk.

I sat on Jacob’s bed and he crawled on to my lap.

“I have news,” I said.

Julien frowned.

“Are we going anywhere?” he asked.

“Not yet,” I replied. “You have to promise not to scream. We are guests here and we don’t know who else is staying here besides us.” I was thinking of Vogel and of the possibility that he might have spent the night with Florence.

The boys nodded and waited for me to continue.

“Someone’s arrived here last night,” I said, smiling.

Jacob jumped up and cried “Elio!” before he realised what he’d done and clapped a hand over his mouth. He was so cute I wanted to cuddle him silly.

“Is it true?” asked Julien, who was more cautious than his sibling.

“Yes, he was driven here last night while you were sleeping.”

“Maybe you should have awakened us,” he argued, but his brother was already climbing down the bed, ready to run out of the room.

“Put your socks on,” I intimated, “And wait for us.”

Julien was still pouting when we opened the door to my bedroom, but Jacob flew up to Elio’s arms and hugged him as tight as he could.

“Elio, Elio,” the boy said, in a comical stage whisper, “We have a dog called Tully. He’s smaller than me but he’s much louder.”

Elio was kissing Jacob’s head and his plump cheeks; his eyes were bright but he was beaming as he listened to the boy. Julien sat on the bed and looked at them, his face serious and pinched.

I decided that he and Elio needed some privacy.

“Let’s go brush your teeth,” I said to Jacob, and hauled him away before he could protest.

***

Oliver had winked at me as he closed the door behind him.

“I’m so happy to be here with you,” I said to Julien, without touching him.

“Why didn’t you come with us?” he asked.

“I was afraid that I might get you into trouble, so I waited until it was safe and here I am.”

He stared at me, unconvinced.

“Oliver was very sad,” he went on, “He didn’t want to admit it but he had nightmares.” I swallowed and tried to appear unfazed.

“I’m thankful that you told me,” I said, “I will do my best to banish the bad dreams from now on.”

He demurred a little, his gaze softening.

“He took us to the beach and gave us swimming lessons.”

“That must have been great,” I said, hazarding a caress on his cheek. “I wish I had been there. But we can go again, all four of us.”

“You promise?”

I thought about it for a moment then shook my head.

“I’d rather not,” I replied. “We may not be able to go and I don’t want you to lose faith in me. We will go if it’s not dangerous. It may not be here in France.”

His head shot up. “Are we being sent to Germany?”

“No, that’s never going to happen, this I can promise you,” I said, “Oliver and I will do what’s best for you.”

“I don’t want to go stay with other people,” he stated. “I like being with Oliver and with you. I liked Madame Darel too, but I prefer---” he stopped and bit his lower lip. A fat teardrop slid down his cheek and he wiped it away with annoyance.

I put my arm around his shoulder and his small body slumped against mine.

“You prefer what?” I asked.

“Having someone like a dad, or two dads,” he sniffled. “But don’t tell Oliver that I said that. He treats me like a grown-up and I like it.”

I patted his shoulder and reassured him that I wouldn’t say a word to Oliver. We hugged then I sent him off to wash his face and brush his teeth.

What I really needed was to be rid of him before he saw that I was crying too and that I too was a child in need of his father. But I have Oliver, I thought, and felt the telltale ache in my lower back as a reminder that I was very much alive.

Oliver had gone to check whether the German had gone and if the coast was clear.

“All good,” he said, when he returned, and we marched downstairs, the three of us walking, and Jacob sitting astride Oliver’s shoulders.

Florence was pouring herself a cup of coffee and rose to greet me.

“Elio, we finally meet properly,” she said, with a charming smile. “Last night I was in a devil of a hurry.”

“Yes, so I understood,” I replied. “Did MJ mention that she was coming back at lunchtime?”

“I didn’t pay much attention but she’s welcome any time; MJ and I have known each other for years. Once she asked me to go on that contraption she used to pilot but I said no, I’d rather keep all my bones in their rightful places.”

The boys had already thrown themselves on the food and a microscopic Pekingese was demanding their attention.

“That’s Tully,” Florence explained. “He’s deserted me to be in the company of men.”

“He’ll come back, eventually,” I said.

We sat down and Oliver prepared my coffee followed by the amused gaze of our hostess. I resisted the temptation to rest my socked foot on top of his, but only because the kids were looking down at the dog and might have seen what we were doing.

The conversation stayed casual but when the children took Tully out, we touched on more serious topics.

“I told Vogel about your children,” Florence said, suddenly. “When you went up to bed, I mentioned that you were tucking in your kids. He will come back, you see, and if he saw them with you, he’d wonder why we hadn’t told him before.”

Oliver agreed that she had done the right thing then he frowned at me.

“Florence thinks you should hide here while I should tell the children to call me Papa,” he said, quickly. “I have waited because I’m not sure how they’ll take it.”

I smiled at him. “Better than you imagine,” I said. 


	38. Rings

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Revelations and big talks...
> 
> Mind the fluff!!!!!!
> 
> Oliver's POV

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Before people accuse me of turning everyone gay (ha ha), this is the comment of Varian Fry's son to allegations regarding his father's sexuality. I cried when I read it.  
"Regarding the first point: My father was indeed a closeted homosexual. I figured this out as a young man, after my father had died, from many clues, most of which have never been available to researchers.  
Regarding the second point: I fail to see how my father’s homosexuality could muddy the moral clarity of his cause or besmirch his reputation. Haven’t we got past the point of considering homosexuality shameful? And we should not forget that homosexuals were also victims of the Holocaust and continue to be targets of persecution. For me, the main significance of the realization that my father had led a double life was in helping me reconcile the wreck of the man I saw (he died when I was 9) with the hero who had helped save lives. My father exhibited well-documented signs of bipolar disorder; add to that the psychological toll of being a closeted homosexual in mid-20th-century America and you have a recipe for his mental breakdown.  
JAMES D. FRY  
ROCHESTER, N.Y."

MJ announced her arrival with a screech of tires outside the gates of La Vigie.

Florence had refused an invitation to lunch with Vogel, but was going to meet him later for what she called “an afternoon treat” in one of the cafés on the Promenade. She liked to be seen around with him and with German officers in order to keep the Gestapo's claws off her husband’s properties and art collection.

Elio was hiding inside the villa, as we’d agreed, while I was in the garden, keeping an eye on Jacob and Tully.

The Phantom Rolls Royce made its entrance and from it exited an energetic young woman dressed in a fawn trouser-suit and matching cloche-hat. She hugged Florence and threw me a questioning glance.

“This is Oliver,” Florence said, “Elio’s friend.”

The woman whistled. “Now I understand his hurry to get back here as soon as he could,” she commented. She was speaking English with a faint American accent.

“MJ Gold,” she offered, taking my hand and shaking it. “Florence and I are almost homonyms. Except that she married hers while I am as free as a bird.”

Florence raised one highbrow. “That’s not what I’ve heard through the grapevine.”

MJ grimaced but I could see that she was pleased with the inference. “If it’s Raymond you are referring to, that’s hardly a secret. I’d always dreamed to be a gangster’s moll.”

“You are not taking the war very seriously,” Florence commented with a smile.

“Darling,” MJ drawled, “I’ve never taken life seriously; not mine, anyway. And Raymond is simply fabulous: he was in the French Foreign Legion and now he’s one of yours.”

I expressed my surprise but she went on, undeterred. “Yes, with the SOE. He was in hospital in a place called Falmouth until a few months ago.”

“Is he a pilot?”

Florence decided it was time to take our conversation inside, so I went to collect Jacob, who was sitting on the grass and looking for snails.

“Want to stay here,” he whined.

“Only if you promise to remain close to the house,” I replied.

He nodded and went back to inspecting the ground with the typical single-mindedness of children. Tully was curled under a nearby palm tree, fast asleep.

Elio was teaching Julien to play a piece by Debussy. The boy was trying to disguise how much he enjoyed being taught by Elio, but it was obvious to anyone who knew him as well as I did. He looked like a child again and not like a precocious adult with the world’s weight on his shoulders.

“Here you are!” cried MJ, and Elio beamed at her.

“Play this again,” he said to Julien, “And when I’m back, we’ll do the other one.”

“I could try on my own,” the boy suggested.

“All right,” conceded Elio, “But remember that it doesn’t matter if you don’t get it right at first.”

When he nodded, Julien looked exactly like his brother. I let myself imagine what he’d be like as a young man, with an older Elio - his hair streaked with silver – next to him. That’s what I want, I thought, nothing exceptional or grand; only a normal family, doing everyday things.

“How was Antibes?” Florence asked MJ, as the latter offered us her American cigarettes.

“Never went there,” the woman replied. She had removed her hat and was combing he fingers through her wavy hair. “I went to Grasse to see Sonia Delauney. She’s been a bit down since Robert died, but her art has improved. I know that it sounds callous but there you are.”

“We’ll have a second Renaissance after the war,” Elio remarked, “If anyone’s left alive, that is.”

MJ cast him an odd look. What was strange about it was that she was staring not at his face but at a point below his neck. She shook her head and cleared her throat.

“You were asking me about Oliver’s friend,” she said to Elio, but turned to look at me.

Neither of us spoke, so she continued. “He had been hiding for a long time; recovering from a plane crash. Varian found him in Narbonne: he was pretending to be mute in order not to have to speak French. He came to Air-Bel for a couple of days. That shirt you are wearing,” she addressed Elio, “He had it on when he arrived. I remember because Miriam told him that green was not his colour; made his skin look sallow. It suits you though; it matches your eyes.”

Elio had gone stiff, evidently wishing he could remove said garment there and then. I was in a daze, not quite believing what my ears had just heard.

“His name was Peter Gregory,” I said, finally.

MJ shrugged. “That’s what Raymond told me later,” she replied. “But he refused to give his name. I suppose he didn’t completely trust us, which was only fair.”

“Where is he now?” asked Elio, without looking at me.

“I’m not sure, but my guess is Banyuls-Sur-Mer.”

“It’s close to Portbou isn’t it?” I asked, recalling the map that Elio had been sent. "But why has he not returned to England?”

MJ’s gaze ricocheted between Elio and me.

“I can’t say,” she hesitated. “We keep information to a minimum.”

Florence stood up, dusting cigarette ash from the skirt of her dress.

“I’m going to the kitchen to make sure everything’s in order for our lunch,” she said, and left the room.

Elio tracked her progress and when the door clicked shut, he turned to face MJ.

“I can leave too if you want to tell Oliver about his _friend_,” he said, tersely.

MJ snorted. “Maybe I’d rather tell you.”

Elio frowned. “I don’t understand,” he said.

“But I think I do,” I interjected. “He’s found someone like I have found someone.”

“I’m not going to give you the usual bromide on how extreme situations change people,” MJ said. “But things happen, people fall in and out of love, always have, always will.”

“But he couldn’t have,” argued Elio, in a tone that was not that different from Jacob’s when he refused to go to bed. “Oliver came here to find him. He risked his life to make sure,” his voice broke. I wanted very much to hold him.

“Look, now that I have met Oliver,” she mock-leered at me. “I don’t get it either but it’s happened and you have to accept it.”

“I assume you won’t tell us who’s the other... person,” I said.

She laughed.

“The cat’s out of the bag,” she replied. “It’s Varian. There, I have said it,” she sighed and stubbed out her cigarette.

Lunch was a surreal affair: MJ and Florence discussed common American acquaintances while Elio and I dedicated our attentions to the kids, carefully avoiding talking to each other.

“Come to us,” MJ said to us, when she took her leave, “As soon as you can. We can get you out, I’m certain of that.”

Elio thanked her through clenched teeth, while I clasped her hand in mine.

“I have to get rid of this shirt,” Elio hissed, as soon as we were alone.

“Sounds enticing,” I joked, and was rewarded with a glare.

I followed him up to our room and locked the door.

“Why are you so angry?” I asked him. He undid two buttons then pulled the shirt over his head. His curls got tangled in it and he swore and almost ripped the garment off him.

“You could have been shot by that German,” he growled. “And all because you came here to find a man who didn’t care enough to let you know that he was alive and sleeping with somebody else.”

I smoothed down his hair and stroked his cheekbones. “I’d have thought you’d have been pleased. I am the one who should be upset.”

He gazed at me, flushed and serious. “And why aren’t you?”

“I have no reason to be,” I said, and it was true. “He’s alive and well and he’s also no longer my problem. This Fry person is a bona-fide hero: you may have fallen in love with him too, if you had met him first.”

“I have impeccable taste,” he scoffed. “I only fall for the very best.”

“I feel honoured,” I replied, stroking the skin above the waistline of his trousers.

He rested his cheek against my shoulder, nosing along my jaw.

“Have you really no regrets?” he asked.

A few seconds elapsed. “I wish I hadn’t waited so long to get in your bed.”

Elio giggled. “You got there the second time we met.”

“It was conspicuously empty.”

“You made me wait, that’s true,” he conceded. “But I wouldn’t change our first time for anything.”

“That’s because you are a perverted voyeur.”

“You didn’t mind.”

“I’d never come so hard with another person,” I whispered.

We spent some time making out on our bed until I remembered something that I wanted to show him. I opened the top drawer of my bedside table and fished out a small velvet box.

“Florence suggested I should wear this,” I said, showing him the platinum band that lay inside the box. “After all, I have kids so I must have had a wife at some point.”

Elio took the ring and looked at it as though it were a foreign object.

“How did she know your size?” he asked.

“She didn’t,” I explained. “For reasons she wouldn’t expand on, she has several of these, in a variety of materials and sizes. This was the only one that fitted me.”

“Shall I?”

We both stared as he slid the elegant platinum band on my ring finger.

“I wish I’d bought it for you,” he said.

“Does it matter?”

He kissed the back of my hand, murmuring “No,” and I pulled him up so that I could hold him in my arms. His heart was beating fast and so was mine.

After a while he undid my trousers and fingered my ass.

“I too deserve a ring,” he joked.

“Like I said,” I chuckled, “A perverted voyeur.”

While Elio was in the bath, I decided it was time to have _the_ talk with the kids.

They had obediently stayed in the salon: Julien was at the piano and Jacob was playing with a stuffed bear Florence had found in one of the spare rooms.

“Is Elio coming back?” Julien asked.

“He’ll be down soon,” I replied.

I sat next to Jacob and he handed me the bear.

“You can play with him,” he said, with the air of someone bestowing a great favour.

I thanked him and he climbed on my lap to hug both me and the bear.

“Can I talk to you boys for a minute?” I asked, sounding strained to my own ears.

Julien stayed where he was but the music stopped.

“All right, there is no easy way to say this but I will try,” I drew a deep breath. “I wish with all my heart that your parents were here with you, that they’d never left you. But they had to and I don’t know when they will be back.”

“They will never be back,” said Julien. Jacob started to sniffle so I cuddled him closer.

“Anyway, Elio and I are taking care of you, but you’ll be safer if people believe that you are,” I hesitated, made sure that my voice wouldn’t falter. “That you are my children.”

Jacob had grabbed the collar of my shirt and was thoroughly distracted.

“But will we stop pretending when we are safe?” his brother asked.

“Only if you wish to,” I replied. “It’s up to you to decide.”

He pouted. “I don’t want to do it.”

“Can you tell me why not?”

Julien walked up to me and, again, I saw him as he would be when he grew up.

“Because you’ll get rid of us as soon as you can.”

I looked him straight in the eye. “Do you really believe that?”

His lips trembled and his chin wobbled.

“Don’t know,” he muttered.

I held my hand out to him and he grabbed it. A moment later, I had two children in my lap.

Jacob was – as usual – the first purveyor of truth.

“Papa, catch,” he said, throwing the bear at my head. I was too stunned and let it fall to the floor.

Julien leaned down to retrieve the toy and handed it to me.

“You’ll have to get used to it,” he said, with a twinkle in his eyes.


	39. Invasion

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Time to say goodbye...
> 
> Fluffy fluff, confessions and a change of name.
> 
> Elio's POV/Oliver's POV

That evening, Florence didn’t come back to La Vigie.

Faithful to her diktat that I should remain in hiding, I was to have my dinner at the table in our bedroom; the maid had been ordered to stay out of it and keep her mouth shut, and I suspected she’d seen and heard more incriminating secrets than that of my presence.

Oliver had his supper with the children but came up later, carrying a tray laden with food. Stashed inside his shirt was a bottle of red wine.

“Have they gone to sleep?” I asked him.

“They are in bed, which isn’t the same thing,” he replied.

He looked tired but serene, like I hadn’t seen him since before our escape.

“This is called a _daube_,” I explained, as I tucked into the beef stew. “And the wine, the Bandol, comes from one of the oldest vineyards in the area.”

“Aren’t you quite the little connoisseur?” he mocked, pouring me a glass of said drink.

“We can’t all be philistines like the English,” I countered. “You undercook some of your vegetables and overcook the rest of them. And as for your wines, you have none.”

He laughed and stretched out on the bed.

“We have ales,” he replied. “And I miss the smell of fried fish and chips wrapped inside a newspaper.”

I grimaced. “That’s disgusting.”

Oliver’s laughter died down. “Do you think you’d mind,” he said, leaning back on his elbows, “If you had to live there for a while? God knows how long this insanity will last and even after that, the uncertainty---”

I licked the sauce off my lips. “I won’t pretend that it doesn’t hurt, having to leave my country. But it’s not like we have a choice; it’s not just the two of us any longer.”

His eyes shone bright. “I can’t wait to show you my favourite bits of London, those that are still standing at least.”

“The boys will love it over there,” I said, and then – only to annoy him – I added, “Except for the weather. They’ll hate all that rain.”

“It won’t be forever,” he remarked, earnestly, “I’m going to miss the sunshine too.”

“You were pale as moonlight when you first came here,” I joked. “And look at you now: all that’s missing is a yacht and a leopard on a leash.”

He narrowed his eyes, puzzled.

“It’s just a movie I saw years ago,” I said, “You have the looks of a matinee idol.”

Oliver snorted. “If all else fails, I could try that for a change of career.”

“You were writing a book on Heraclitus: couldn’t you go back to doing that?”

He was obviously pleased that I remembered.

“I doubt anyone will care about ancient philosophers when so many lives have been destroyed for no sensible reason.”

I had finished eating and had lighted a cigarette. I sat on the bed, back against the headboard.

“Dad would certainly disagree with you,” I murmured. He scooted up the mattress until he was by my side. He stole the cigarette from my fingers and took a long drag before returning it.

“I miss him too,” he said. Before he could go on, I interjected. “No, we are not going to Luberon to fetch my father. We’d only endanger his safety and ours.”

Oliver caressed my shoulder, my arm.

“I wish I could make it better,” he whispered.

“You do, you must know that,” I replied. “What about you? I have heard about your nightmares.”

He sighed and shook his head. “Those boys, they are already a handful.”

“Don’t prevaricate,” I replied, nudging him in the ribs. “Was it because of the German? I still haven’t had any bad dreams about Benech, but I’m sure they’ll come,” I shuddered.

“Armand,” he replied. “He killed himself.”

In hushed tones, he recounted the story of his childhood friend and I could hardly breathe. The cigarette stub almost burned my fingers and the ash was like a terrible reminder of mortality.

“It’s horrible that his loved ones will never know why he did it,” I said. While he was speaking, he’d rested his head on my chest and I was stroking his cheek and his hair. Beneath my fingers, I felt the clench of his jaw, the grinding of teeth.

“Perhaps he was terrified that he was the way he was,” Oliver murmured. “Maybe he hated how it would define his whole life so he put a stop to it.”

“You can’t be sure of that,” I replied. “He may have been in love with someone and that person left or rejected him. Adolescents take those things very seriously.”

It took me a split second to fully understand what I’d just suggested and I cursed my lack of verbal filters.

Oliver pulled away from me and stared into my eyes.

“Are you implying that it may have been my fault?”

“What, no, of course I am not!”

He flushed and looked away. “Florence believes it’s partially hers. She hasn’t said as much, but I could tell. At the time, she was always throwing hints, making fun of us, the way girls do with younger boys.”

“She didn’t act out of malice, did she?”

“I don’t know,” he replied, “In any case, she was too green herself to know what she was doing. She hoped that her brother had reached out to me, that he’d have told me what was troubling him.”

I waited in silence for him to continue.

“I wish there was a way to honour his memory, one that didn’t involve gravestones,” he said, taking my hand in his.

I gazed at our entwined fingers, at his hairy wrist and my pale forearm, and the faint throb of lust coursed down my veins.

“You could change your last name to Armand,” I suggested, my mind already south-bound, “If the British laws allow it.”

He cleared his throat. “Yes, I suppose I might do that,” he agreed, hastily, as though he too was distracted. “That’s the name you used to call me.”

“I’ll call you any name you like,” I whispered, “As long as it’s you in my bed.”

“_A rose by any other name_,” he quoted.

“Shut up and kiss me,” I muttered.

He was smiling even as he slipped his tongue inside my mouth.

Early morning, I was two-fingers-deep into Oliver when we heard a loud noise coming from outside.

“Fuck,” he swore.

My wet prick bounced in protest, but to no avail.

“Stay here,” said Oliver, once he’d put on some clothes.

“I’ll go check on the children,” I replied, but when he opened the door, they were standing outside, like two eavesdroppers in a farce. Oliver and I looked at each other, silently hoping and praying that they hadn’t heard anything compromising.

“How many times do I have to tell you,” he chided in an unconvincing schoolmaster-ish voice. “Don’t wander around the house on your own.”

Jacob’s eyes filled with tears and Oliver’s face crumpled.

“Sorry,” said Julien, “But he was scared and I didn’t know what to do.”

“Go,” I urged Oliver, and accompanied the kids back to their bedroom.

I had helped them wash and dress and I was wondering whether it would be safe to send Julien to get some food, when Oliver returned. He was white as a sheet and his lips were bitten red.

He told the children that breakfast was ready in the kitchen and that he would be down in a minute. Julien took his brother’s hand and they went quietly, without asking a single question.

“It’s happened,” Oliver exclaimed when they were out of earshot. “The Germans have invaded the Free Zone. Soon there will be soldiers everywhere. Florence will lend us a car; we should leave as soon as we can.”

“I’ll put you in danger,” I started, but Oliver cut me short. “Don’t you dare start with this again,” he hissed. “I’m not going anywhere without you, so either we stay here together or we leave together.”

“If they find me, we’ll die, all of us.”

“They won’t and we won’t,” he spat.

We agreed that I would pack for all of us while he attended to the provisions.

“I need a litre of coffee at the very least,” I said, trying to lighten the mood.

“Fetch me your hip-flask.”

“That’s for the liquor,” I protested.

He winked at me. “Trust me, I have it covered.”

***

Florence was in the salon, inspecting the furnishings as though they were about to be auctioned off.

“Vogel wanted me to be with him when it happened,” she said, in a faraway tone. “He knew it and said nothing; because if he’d told me, I might not have slept with him.”

She threw me a defiant glance.

“You had guessed, I see.”

“It’s none of my business,” I replied. “Besides, I am in no position to judge. Not that I would have, in any case.”

“My paintings should be safe,” she went on, as if I hadn’t spoken. “My belongings, my husband’s properties, things, objects, money,” she broke off, covering her face with her hands. “The country of my childhood is lost forever.”

I wrapped her in my arms. “Not forever,” I said. “Even now, people are fighting back. If it wasn’t for the children, Elio and I would do the same.”

When she moved away, she was the self-possessed, cool woman that I’d come to know and admire.

“I have a Rolls Royce too,” she said, “Not the latest model, like MJ’s, but you can have it. The car you were driving when you arrived here is too conspicuous.”

“And the Rolls isn’t?”

She clicked her tongue. “You know what I mean, don’t make me say it.”

“What will you do without your car?”

“My dear, I have more than one automobile,” she replied, in a tone of mock-reproach. “Elio should stay here, but since I know he won’t, make sure he doesn’t hide in the trunk: that’s the first place they’ll check. He should lie down on the floor at the back of the car. Throw a blanket over him and the kids will rest their feet on it. That’s hardly comfortable but it will do for a couple of hours.”

“What about me: who should I be?”

She squinted at me and smiled.

“Wear that German uniform,” she replied. “I imagine that with all that’s going on they won’t know whether they are coming or going. The French won’t dare stop you and the Germans will see the car and the uniform and will assume you are top of the food chain.”

I had already decided it was the best solution but I was glad to hear that she was on the same wavelength.

In the silence which had fallen between us, we heard Tully’s frantic yapping.

“This is your real trial by fire,” she said, patting my arm. “Being a father also means learning to say no.”

“I wish they could have everything they want, that I could give it to them.”

She squeezed my hand. “They have you both.”

“Tully wants to come with us,” said Jacob, for the nth time. “He’s my best friend, he is, aren’t you, Tully?”

The dog whined and jumped into the little boy’s lap.

“Tully is Florence’s dog and anyway we can’t take him with us.”

Julien had gone upstairs to help Elio with the packing and I was left to impart the bad news to a tearful Jacob.

“But he’s going to be lonely without me,” the boy whimpered. “She’s old and she can’t run after him.”

“Florence is not much older than me or Elio.”

“You don’t run after Tully,” he said, accusingly. “Don’t you like him? He’s a good dog, aren’t you, Tully?” The Pekingese stuck his tongue out and blinked.

“I run after you,” I argued, tickling Jacob behind the ear. Despite his anger, he laughed and leaned into my touch. I loved him as though he was a part of me. In fact, I was no longer sure that he wasn’t.


	40. Ashes to Ashes

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> First of all: I hope you are all safe and sound. Wash your hands and be careful, my dears!
> 
> The boys start on their journey but it's not going as well as they'd hoped... 
> 
> Oliver's POV

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> In November 1942, in an operation near Narbonne, Raymond Couraud (also known as Jack) was forced to neutralise three Vichy policemen. I changed it a little bit ;)

Behind the wheel of Florence’s Rolls Royce and dressed like a minor officer of the Gestapo, I felt like a bad actor in a pantomime.

“Would it be in bad taste to admit that I find this quite sexy?” Elio had whispered in my ear, while Julien and Jacob were saying their goodbyes to Florence and Tully.

“You like a man in uniform,” I quipped. “Is it the authority, the shiny buttons or both?”

He trailed a hand up and down the front of my jacket and flicked the collar.

“You look pretty ruthless,” he remarked. “You could have me on my knees without having to say a word.”

“Can’t believe it,” I snorted, “Of all the times to be horny---”

“We may be arrested and even killed,” he caressed my jaw. “I’ll cherish the memory of having been inside your pants.”

“I bet you will,” I said, stroking the curls at his nape.

Julien came out of the villa holding a book against his chest.

“It’s in German,” he explained. “Madame Florence said that it will help with the deception.”

Elio leafed through it. “The Heptameron,” he exclaimed, “There’s that story of the French knight who is in love with a princess but he’s too timid to tell her. Is it better to speak or to die?”

The boy frowned at him. “That’s silly,” he muttered, and walked back to the villa.

“Imagine what he will be like as an adolescent,” I said, and Elio smiled fondly at the thought.

“Anyway,” I went on, “Does the knight speak in the end?”

“No, he fudges. He's intrigued, but he sense a trap.”

“It figures,” I joked, “He’s French.”

He pretended to be insulted so I shut him up with a kiss. He had climbed on to my lap and was pressing his lean, hard chest to mine.

“I wish we didn’t have to go,” he breathed, his cheeks hot and smooth beneath my fingers.

“If anything happens to me,” I started, but he shut me up with another kiss.

We heard the sound of voices approaching.

“Oliver is Papa,” Jacob was arguing, “Not Elio. You can't call him Papa.”

“You didn’t ask him,” his sibling countered.

“It’s your turn, you do it!”

Elio returned to the passenger seat and smoothed down his shirt.

“I’ll leave you to it,” I said, smiling, and strode towards the house.

Florence was on the phone, listening attentively, her eyes narrowed.

She raised a hand to signal that I should wait there.

“All right, yes, yes,” she kept saying, “I understand, hmm, yes, I see.”

When it was over, she placed the received back on its cradle, carefully, and emitted a long sigh.

“It was Ludwig,” she explained. “He told me not to leave the grounds of La Vigie for a day or two. There’s bound to be trouble: riots and worse. He wanted to come over but I put him off.”

“We are ready to go,” I said, “Are you sure we can take your car?”

She rolled her eyes. “For the love of god, stop pestering me about that darned car!”

“You have become very American,” I replied.

“I should hope so, considering the time I’ve spent over there,” she chuckled. “And when this war’s over, you’ll come and visit me in the States; you and that boy of yours.”

“He’s not _really_ a boy,” I smiled.

“Armand would have liked him,” she said, out of the blue. “He admired bravery.”

I hugged her tight. “I’ll never forget him,” I murmured. “I’ll carry him with me forever.”

The streets that had been half-empty up to a few days before were crammed with people: it was as if the locals – stupefied, frightened and angry – had decided to come out to witness the end of their ersatz freedom. Perhaps up until this moment they hadn’t fully realised the tragedy that had befallen their country, distracted as they had been by the convenient artifice of collaboration with the enemy. As they say at the casino, _les jeux sont faits__,_ and there was nowhere to hide.

In that chaos, we were almost invisible and it seemed like we could have made it to Marseille unhindered.

We had just passed Narbonne when luck deserted us.

There had been no ambush or checkpoint; it wasn’t a military car that stopped us, but an ordinary vehicle carrying two soldiers and one officer.

They’d had a puncture and were hoping that I’d help them out. I drove on, despite their protests, and a moment later shots were ringing out and the children were crying and screaming. In my haste to run away, I nearly collided with another car so I hit the brakes and the Rolls came to an abrupt halt.

The Germans had run after us, and I saw that they were armed with Walther pistols. I took my gun from the glove compartment and placed it on the passenger seat.

“Stay quiet,” I said to the boys. “Don’t say a word. Pretend Elio isn’t there. Let me do the talking, all right?”  
Julien – who was holding a sniffling Jacob in his arms – stared at me and nodded his head. He was trembling and I hated not being able to comfort him and his brother, but there was no time.

The German officer - a robust, red-faced man in his mid-thirties – shouted something at me that I took to mean that I should get out of the car. I pointed at my throat to suggest that I couldn’t speak and indicated the boys.

He bent down to look at them and asked them a question to which they obviously couldn’t reply since they only spoke French.

“Why are you impersonating a German officer?” he finally said in broken French. “You must be one of them,” he gave me a long, appraising look. “And yet you don’t seem the usual type. Only one way to find out,” he sniggered.

While the other two pointed their pistols at the children, he flung open the car door and told me to get out. There was nothing I could do but obey.

“Show me that you are not a Jew,” he said, and as I hesitated, he punched me in the stomach. Jacob shouted “No, no, Papa, no,” before he was silenced by his brother. I tried to stand up straight, but the man kicked me and punched me in the ribs, in the solar plexus, in the groin. I was unable to fight back, afraid that they would kill the children.

My nose was stuffed with blood and there was a loud ringing in my ears. Soon the man’s fingers were on my crotch and I felt a searing pain that was like nothing I’d ever experienced before. The coldness of the gun pressed against my temple was almost a relief. I knew that I was going to die and prayed to any god that might exist for Elio and the boys to be spared. There was a sudden flare of red before my eyes and then it turned to black.

“What an absolute fucking mess,” the man said in French, but with a faint English intonation.

I opened my eyes and closed them again: my head hurt and the light made it a lot worse.

“Who are you?” I managed to say.

“Does it matter?” the man huffed. “You ruined my operation; walked right in to the middle of it like a bloody big elephant.”

“Is there any other type?”

“British are you?” he enquired. “Can’t help being glib even after they’ve beaten you to a pulp.”

Reality came back to me in a sudden rush. I ignored the pain and turned around: the boys were asleep, mouths slightly parted and cheeks smeared with tears. There was no sign of Elio.

“Tell me what’s going on,” I said. The man – youngish, skinny and with an arresting if not handsome face – didn’t hesitate.

“I was driving the car that you nearly crashed into. I wasn’t planning to kill anyone today, but can’t say I am too sorry. By the way, your nose is not broken and you still have all your teeth, which is something.”

“You haven’t told me your name,” I said, prodding my own jaw and ribs to assess the extent of my injuries. Everything hurt but I seemed to be in one piece.

“I suppose I can risk that, seeing that I’ve saved your life,” he replied. “The thing is, I have two names. My friends call me Jack and my girl calls me Raymond.”

The name rang a bell.

“Wait, would that girl be American and named Mary Jayne?”

He laughed then became serious. “How come you know her?”

“She’s a friend of a friend,” I replied. “By the way, could you pull over?”  
“What, now?”

“Yes, now,” I insisted.  
He did as told and parked the car in a clearing.

Julien was no longer asleep and he was shaking his brother awake.

Raymond got out of the car and announced that he was going for a piss.

“Elio,” I called, “Are you alright?”

Jacob plucked at the blanket that was covering Elio. He wasn’t moving.

When I finally got him out, Elio's face was livid and his heartbeat was erratic.

Raymond had returned but his reaction had been impeccable: he had shown hardly any surprise at seeing Elio and had taken the boys away so they too could relieve themselves.

It took me a while to revive Elio, and by the time he opened his eyes, I was the one feeling faint and sick.

“I couldn’t breathe,” he rasped, “And I didn’t want to come out in case they shot you and the children.”

He took a sip of brandy from the hip-flask.

“I heard everything,” he went on, brushing his fingertips across my bruised jaw. “It was horrible, like a nightmare. I was terrified that they were going to kill the boys and that I’d be unable to stop them,” he broke off, wiping his mouth with a trembling hand.

“We are alright,” I tried to reassure him. “It seems that we have been rescued by MJ’s lover, of all people.”

“I heard more than one voice.”

“There were three Germans; one officer and two soldiers.”

“He can’t have done it all by himself.”

“I didn’t,” Raymond interjected. “I left my friends to take care of the mess.”

Julien ran to Elio while Jacob complained that he was hungry.

“There’s a place I know not far from here,” Raymond said, “They won’t ask questions.”

Elio kissed the top of Julien’s head and asked, “How far are we from Marseille?”

“Not far,” Raymond replied, and then he seemed to realise something. “You were going to Villa Air-Bel, weren’t you?”

I nodded. “We don’t need to stop along the way,” I said, “We have packed some provisions.”

The kids and Raymond ate cheese and bread while Elio and I drank our brandy: he was still in shock while I doubted I’d be able to eat anything solid.

My groin throbbed with a dull ache and I was afraid to piss in case there was blood mixed with the urine. I was even more in fear that something worse had happened, but I didn’t want to consider the possibility.

“Take off that jacket,” Elio said, after a while.

I looked down and was startled to see that it was spattered with blood.

“Sorry, I had not realised,” I started to undo the buttons, but Elio pushed my hands away. When he was done, he unpeeled the garment from my shoulders and threw it to the side.

“Not the best of ideas,” Raymond said, “To dress like a German if you don’t speak the lingo. They don’t have a sense of humour, these Huns. Not even a shred of it.”

“I got away with it once,” I replied.

He shrugged as if to imply that I shouldn’t have tempted fate twice.

“We should burn it,” Elio said. “Better not to leave any trace behind.”

He took out his lighter and set fire to the jacket under the intent gazes of Julien and Jacob.

“Ashes to ashes,” Raymond recited, “dust to dust.”


	41. Spot and Boots

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Oliver is not in great shape but he's got Elio to look after him.
> 
> Elio's POV
> 
> Fluff ahead because kittens!!!!!

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I hope you are all staying in and being safe. These are dark times, but we can pull through together!
> 
> Note: I just found out that Raymond Couraud was interned in a place in Spain called Miranda. Strange or what?

Oliver’s face was a greenish hue underneath the bruises.

“You should lie down,” I said, as I helped him up the stairs to the bedroom that had been assigned to us. It had two twin beds, but I supposed we had to save face.

Daniel’s wife, Theo, was taking care of the children.

The shock of the ambush has silenced Julien, but Jacob was tearful and in constant need of reassurance.

“Miriam will help me,” Theo had said, introducing us to a young girl with short curly auburn hair and an urchin's smile.

Together, they had guided the kids towards the kitchen for an impromptu meal.

Julien had looked at me as though waiting for my permission.

“You’ll be alright,” I’d said, while Oliver had caressed Jacob’s head.

“We have home-made jam,” said Theo, and when that didn’t seem to get the expected reaction, she added, “Last night we found two stray kittens in the back garden.” After that, it was plain sailing, as Oliver and I were switfly supplanted by the two felines.

“I am fine,” Oliver gritted out, but he swayed and had to lean against the wall. “Maybe I need to piss,” he conceded.

I remembered where the bathroom was - the one with the bergamot oil - and I went in with him.

“I didn’t ask for an audience,” he complained.

“You are getting one anyway,” I replied. I washed my face and hands, watching him out of the corner of my eye, in case his legs buckled under him.

“Damn,” he hissed.

“What’s wrong, does it hurt?”

“Like hell,” he replied, “There’s some blood, I’m afraid.”

I ran to him and saw that he was right. I didn’t know much about anatomy and the inner workings of the human body but that couldn’t be good.

“We should get you a doctor,” I said, keeping my voice from shaking. His clothes had protected the skin from excessive tearing but he was black and blue, with the blackest marks - spreading like oil spill - on his lower back and inner thighs.

He snorted, his teeth chattering. “Don’t be silly,” he gritted out, “We can’t risk it.”

I pressed my hand to his forehead: it was hot and dry.

“You have a fever,” I said. “I’ll run you a hot bath. It will soothe your aches a little.”

Oliver closed his eyes and a tremor shook his from head to toe.

“Bad idea,” I murmured. “Let’s get you to bed.”

He didn’t argue.

Theo had been a nurse back in England, before marrying Daniel.

Oliver had fallen into what could be fitful sleep or a state of unconsciousness due to trauma.

“I don’t understand,” I said, wishing my heart would calm down. “He was in pain but he was strong enough to get me out of the car, and he seemed to have recovered.”

“Adrenaline,” she replied. “It takes a while to wear out and when it does, the come-down is as powerful, but with opposite effects.”

I explained to her what had happened, including the blood in the urine.

She prodded the area above his kidneys and he gave a start but didn’t wake up.

“I don’t think there’s permanent damage,” Theo said, “But I will give him something to lower the temperature and to assuage the pain. And he will need to drink, so make sure he does.”

The kittens were two puny creatures with crusty eyes and matted black fur with occasional splotches of white. They had been on the brink of starvation and they didn’t possess the typical aloofness of their species. On the contrary, they were purring like tiny engines and allowing themselves to be petted by Jacob and Julien, who couldn’t believe their luck.

“Can we take them to our room?” asked Jacob, as soon as he saw me.

“They’ll give you fleas,” I remarked, but it was a faint-hearted protest. “Do they have names?”

Miriam – who was washing the dishes in the large stone sink – turned towards me to reply. “Spot and Boots: I’ll let you guess which one is which.”

The one in Jacob’s lap had white paws. “Boots means _bottes_,” said the boy, inordinately proud of that bit of new knowledge.

“And Spot means _tache_,” Julien chimed in, his voice still hoarse from lack of use. His kitten was trying to climb up his chest and was regarding him with a pleading gaze.

“Poor beasts,” Miriam said, wiping her slender hands on a cloth. “No one cares about animals now unless it’s for food.”

She took me aside and murmured “How’s your friend?”

“Not too well,” I replied, “But Theo said he’ll pull through.”

“You can trust her.” She patted my back and frowned. “You’re awfully thin. Sit down; I’ll warm up some of the stew we had for dinner last night.”

“I’d rather go back upstairs, just in case.”

Julien heard me. “Can I come too?” he asked. “I want to see how he is.”

I didn’t know what to say.

“He’ll want a hot broth when he wakes up,” Miriam intervened. “Will you give me a hand?” she said to Julien. He stared at me and I nodded my head. Spot gazed at him and at me and then he mewled.

I had no idea what had happened to Raymond until I nearly collided with him on my way to the stairs.

He was deep in conversation with a young man with a square face and a receding hairline.

“Oh, here you are,” Raymond exclaimed. “Meet Beamish.”

I introduced myself and shook the latter’s hand.

“My name’s actually Albert but Varian thought it didn’t suit me.”

“It’s a stuffy old name,” Raymond concurred, “Same as mine, which is why I prefer Jack. But that’s neither here or there. Beamish and I were discussing your escape plan. Best way is to go via the Pyrenees and then to Portugal.”

“We’ll need documents,” I said.

“Of course,” said Beamish, smiling. He had perfect white teeth. “We’ll deal with that like we usually do.”

“We have two kids who are supposed to be Oliver’s, my friend’s sons.”

Beamish and Jack exchanged looks.

“I assume you mean that they are not really his children.”

“They are Jewish, same as me,” I replied, curtly. “Oliver is not.”

“And their family has been deported, I take it,” he said. His smile had disappeared. “I’m from Berlin and my last name is Hirschman. I wish I could tell you that they will be alright but I would be lying.”

“You don’t have to lie to me. They wouldn’t need children or elderly people to work in their camps.”

He pressed his lips together and Jack squeezed his arm.

“It’s hard to accept that my own beloved country is inflicting so much death and destruction,” he said, “But it must be faced. No use loving those who hate us.”

“Surely we are not safe here,” I argued. “The Germans will find out, now that they’ve occupied the Free Zone.”

“You’d be surprised what money can buy you,” Jack said, “Besides we won’t be here for long. In a few days we’ll be scattered all over the Riviera. When I say we, I mean Varian and his merry lot. I’ll be taking you to Lisbon.”

I stared at him. “You will come with us?”

He chuckled. “I’m going to London and so are you, so why not travel together?”

“What about MJ?” I blurted out, stupidly.

“We are not Siamese twins,” he replied. “She’s not one of those meek girls who want to hold hands under the moonlight.”

Beamish snorted. “She’d much rather drink you under the table.”

“That’s what I like in a lady,” Jack remarked. “And that she has a mind of her own.”

I thought about remaining here while Oliver and the kids went to London and realised I wasn’t as brave as MJ.

“We’ll talk later,” said Beamish, as Theo approached.

“He’s awake,” she said. “Don’t let him get out of bed, no matter what. He needs to rest until tomorrow morning at least. There’s a chamber-pot under his bed: make him use it.”

She saw the expression on my face and smiled. “Being together is not all wine and roses.”

“We are not,” I started, but she was already walking away.

“I won’t do it,” Oliver groused. “I can walk to the bathroom, I am not an invalid.”

He was shivering and clammy with sweat. Theo had cleaned and disinfected him and I had pushed the beds together and was lying down at his side.

“You’ll do as you are told,” I said, combing my fingers through his hair. “I can empty it, it doesn’t bother me.”

He grimaced. “Disgusting,” he murmured.

I pulled at his fringe and he scowled. “In case you haven’t noticed, I am not that precious. You’d do the same for me.”

That seemed to mollify him.

“Where are the kids?”

I told him about the two kittens and his face softened. “They will forget all about us, as if we never existed.”

“I doubt it,” I replied. I leaned closer to him and felt a little dizzy.

“I am going to close my eyes for a moment,” I said, biting back a yawn.

Oliver pressed a kiss to the side of my head and whispered something I couldn’t quite catch.

In my dreams, someone was knocking at the door.

“Elio, wake up,” Oliver’s voice urged. I opened my eyes and saw that it had gone dark outside. I switched the bed light on and went to see who it was.

Julien looked up at me with worry written all over his face.

“I want to see Papa,” he said, and I stood there transfixed until Oliver called my name.

I let Julien in and asked him where Jacob was.

“He’s sleeping with Boots and Spot,” the boy replied. “Miriam said that the broth is ready.”

Oliver sat up and Julien went to him. “Did they hurt you very badly?” he asked, in a small, quiet voice.

“I’m already feeling better,” Oliver replied, “So, I have heard that you have two kittens now.”

I left the room as Julien explained where the animals had been found and how lucky they had been that Miriam had rescued them.

Theo had given the boys the room next to ours. When I went in, I heard the heart-warming snuffle of a sleeping Jacob and the delicate purring of the two felines that were keeping him company. One of them opened his yellow eyes to gaze at me, but he didn’t find me interesting enough and went back to snoozing.

I bent down and kissed Jacob’s forehead; he smelled of talcum powder and strawberry jam.

“I am so sorry,” I murmured. “I wish you could have your parents back with you.”

But I wasn’t entirely sure what I wanted and that doubt made me feel guilty.

I entered the kitchen expecting to find Miriam but found MJ instead. She was scrambling eggs while singing a jazzy song.

“Someone’s happy,” I said.

She smiled at me. “I always sing when things seem awful, like a bird in a cage.”

The broth was still piping hot, so I looked for a ladle and two bowls.

“I’ve heard what happened to you on the way here. It must have been terrifying.”

She opened a cupboard and took out two fine porcelain bowls then showed me where the cutlery was.

“The hardest part was staying hidden,” I replied. “I wanted to help Oliver, but the children were there too and I was afraid they’d be hurt if I made a move. I will not make the same mistake again,” I snorted and she gave me a puzzled look.

“It’s just that I keep saying this but I make more mistakes anyway.”

She plated her eggs while I poured the broth into the bowls.

“As long as you make different mistakes,” she replied. “I wrecked my first plane because I landed badly. I was so ashamed I didn’t tell anyone, not even my parents. Now I have learned that it’s better to come clean. No one’s blameless.”


	42. Taken

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> A little bit of fluffy and sexy smut to relieve the stress of the lock-down...
> 
> Sorry for taking longer than usual but I'd lost all will to write... 
> 
> STAY IN AND STAY SAFE PLEASE!!!!
> 
> Elio's POV

That night, the concept of parenthood acquired a less idealised character.

Dawn was hours away when I heard sniffling and scratching on the other side of our bedroom’s door.

I cast one swift look at Oliver, but the painkillers had done their work and he was sound asleep.

“Papa,” Jacob whined and tumbled at my feet as soon as I opened the door.

“Hush, he’s asleep,” I whispered, hauling him up into my arms.

“You, Papa,” he muttered, and I realised that he’d been referring to me all along. My heart did a funny thing like a somersault and a jig, but it wasn’t the time for introspection.

“Let’s go back to bed,” I said, but he yanked at the curls at my nape with such force that my eyes watered.

“Here,” he whimpered, “With you.”

“But what about the kittens,” I asked, “They will be all alone.”

He seemed to consider the problem but then his lips curled into a sly smile.

“I put them in Julien’s bed,” he said, bringing his mouth close to my ear, like a tiny conspirator.

Only a minute ago I’d been adamant that he’d have to go back to his own room, but I found that I couldn’t bring myself to let him go.

“All right,” I sighed, “But you promise to be quiet and careful not to wake him up.”

He nodded sagely and planted a wet kiss on my cheek.

I briefly considered the logistics and it was only then that it hit me that Jacob didn’t seem to find it odd that two men slept together like his parents had used to.

Would he resent us later for exposing him to something that the world regarded as a perversion? There was no way of telling.

“In the middle,” he urged, when he saw me hesitating. I didn’t wish to argue so I gave in and placed him where he desired. He rolled to the side, facing Oliver.

His clean milky scent lulled me back to sleep.

Oliver’s bright smile was the first thing I saw when morning came.

“Hi there,” he murmured, and his hand travelled down my back and cupped my ass.

I jumped up as if I’d been stung by a wasp.

“There’s a baby in our bed,” I hissed, but he didn’t relent. In fact, his other hand skated across my chest, fingertips rubbing all the right spots.

“I know,” he husked, “A very handsome and sexy one.”

There was no visible trace of Jacob, so I wondered whether he’d fallen off and crawled under the bed. I was about to wriggle out of Oliver’s grasp but his laughter stopped me in my tracks.

“I took him back to his room,” he said, “After I carried him to the bathroom.”

I glared at him. 

“You were not supposed to walk let alone carry heavy loads.”

“About these heavy loads,” he leered, and I had to bite down hard on my lips to suppress a smile.

“You are a beast,” I protested, “A stubborn, maddening brute.”

He tried to smooth my ruffled feathers by dint of kissing whichever bit of skin I allowed him to but when he saw that my pout was here to stay, his tone turned serious.

“I am feeling better,” he said, “Yes, it’s like I had an encounter with a raging bull but the equipment is in decent working order. And I emptied the chamber pot myself, just so it wouldn’t spoil the mood.”

“And what mood would that be?” I said, still sulking.

“I’ll tell you if you get back here,” he replied, patting the mattress.

“Let me go for a piss,” I said, nose in the air, “I’ll think about it.”

“Negotiating hard, I see,” he chuckled, staring at the bulge in my pyjama pants.

“You are not helping your cause,” I countered, hurrying out so that I could claim the last word.

The children’s room was empty, so I imagined that Miriam or Theo had taken the kids down to breakfast. The kittens were gone too, but in a corner was a large basket lined with a folded blanket.

As I brushed my teeth, I reflected that - while convinced that I shouldn’t give in to Oliver when I’d been told that he needed to rest - I was evidently preparing to do exactly the opposite. We didn’t need to do anything too strenuous, I told myself, certainly nothing acrobatic that required stamina and supple joints.

“I was about to start without you,” Oliver growled, upon my return.

He was naked and was lazily fisting his prick. His inner thighs were a sickly shade of purplish blue, but that didn’t make him any less attractive in my eyes.

Without engaging the conscious side of my brain, I climbed on the bed, settling between his splayed legs. He scooted back until he was sitting on the pillow and his back was against the headboard.

“No sweet nothings?” he asked, but his quips turned into moans when I bent down and licked his balls. I was careful not to hurt him, but the sensitivity caused by the beating he'd received seemed to heighten his pleasure: at every lap of my tongue, his hips would buck and his cock, which I had taken in hand, would grow impossibly thicker.

“Tell me when it’s too much,” I rasped, my nose buried in the coarse groin hair. He smelled faintly of bergamot oil overlaid with musk and sweat.

“Fuck, I’m coming,” he cried, and he did, coating my fingers and his belly with stripes of semen.

“Sorry,” he panted, as I lapped him clean, “I had no idea it would happen so fast.”

“Got me wet like an eager virgin,” I joked, although it wasn’t far from the truth, if any length at all. I was dripping onto the sheets and wouldn’t take me more than a pump or two to come undone.

“Come up here,” he urged, “Let me help.”

We kissed like it was the first time, all teeth and desperation, and like I’d predicted, as soon as Oliver’s deft hand closed around my cock, I was half-way to orgasm. I bit down on the meat of his shoulder and felt a finger push inside the ring of my anus. “Yes, god, yes,” I moaned, and seized up, my body taut as a violin string. I slumped back on the mattress taking Oliver down with me.

“You promise it didn’t hurt?” I asked when the glow of pleasure had lost his keenest edge.

“What do you think,” he replied, hoarsely, “I shot my load so fast even I wasn’t ready for it.”

“You were full of it,” I said, and my dick twitched a little at the thought, “Can’t complain, since I got what I wanted too.”

He looked at me with adoring eyes and caressed my face.

“This side effect might last for a while,” he said, softly.

“Lucky me,” I whispered, and turned so that his thumb slid inside my mouth. I sucked on it, holding his gaze. He licked his lips and closed his eyes.

“I love you so much,” he murmured, and I pulled him to me and into a bruising kiss which left us breathless.

“I’m afraid it’s time to get up,” he said, after a while. “I’m not sure the kids should find us like this.”

“Jacob slept with us,” I remarked. “It doesn’t seem to bother him, two men in the same bed.”

“The questions will come later on,” he said, sombrely. “At some point, we’ll have to explain to them that it’s a secret they shouldn’t divulge.”

“And that it’s a criminal act punishable by imprisonment,” I added. “England is more severe than France in dealing with our kind.”

He frowned. “What kind are we, Elio?”

“The kind that indulges in forbidden acts of a perverted nature,” I replied. “It’s no use dwelling on the injustice of it. We’ll have to keep our heads down and as for the kids it will be a while before they speak English well enough to give the game away.”

He gazed at me with a bewildered expression.

“What,” I asked. 

“You really think we’ll build a life in England,” he murmured.

“Of course we will,” I said, fiercely, “I’m not letting you out of my sight, not with all those dashing RAF pilots crawling all over the place.”

He laughed. “You are French and look like an angel: they’ll be all over you.”

I ruffled his sun-bleached hair. “Alas, I am taken,” I said, and felt the metal of his wedding ring warm against my lips.

In the kitchen, MJ was sitting in Raymond – Jack’s lap.

Oliver cleared his throat but they didn’t stir.

“Just as we were talking about you,” said MJ, adjusting Jack’s spectacles atop his nose. “You are leaving tonight, destination Banyuls-sur-Mer. You’ll meet Dina there. She’s found a safe place, where you can hide while you wait for your documents.”

Jack pinched her cheek and she thrust her tongue out.

“You can give us a hand, while we are there,” he said.

Theo emerged from the pantry door, followed by the two kids, each holding a kitten.

“I found two cans of anchovies and one of sardines,” she announced. “The cats will have to share the sardines.”

Julien and Jacob rushed to greet us and to show Oliver the kittens, explaining in detail what they had done and what they were planning to do.

“Let your,” Theo looked at us, wide-eyed, but then went on, “Your Papas have their breakfast in peace.”

She took them away and Jack continued as though nothing had happened.

“Like I said, maybe you won’t mind helping out while we are there.”

MJ shook him by the shoulders. “You are not thinking straight,” she argued. “They have those two kids with them.”

“I’m not asking them to do anything dangerous,” he said, “Just the occasional spot of surveillance; only if they wish to.”

Oliver scratched the back of his head. “We owe you, clearly.”

“That’s not at all what I meant,” Jack said. “You don’t owe me anything. I figured that you’d want to muck in, but if you don’t, fair enough.”

MJ’s face had hardened. She stood and smoothed down her skirt.

“I swear that sometimes I wish I didn’t like men as much as I do,” she said, coldly. It didn’t suit her sunny, outgoing disposition, but it was much more effective because of it.

They appeared to have completely forgotten about us, so we sat at the other end of the table and poured ourselves some coffee.

“What day of the month is it,” he enquired, faux-politely.

She smacked his arm. “Think very carefully before cracking that idiotic joke,” she growled.

They glared at each other for what seemed like an eternity. Oliver cut two slices of bread and I made some casual remark about the raspberry jam. I felt like humming just so I could defuse the tension.

He turned to us, finally acknowledging our presence. “What a lady, uh?” he said, “Never met her match nor will I ever again.”

“Lady, my foot,” she exclaimed, but she was smiling. “Come away, let them eat in peace.”

Still bickering, they left.

“What was that?” I said to Oliver, as soon as they were out of earshot.

“Lovers’ tiff,” he replied, smirking. “You should recognise the signs, considering that we’ve had our fair share of them.”

I kicked him in the shin then immediately regretted it. “Sorry,” I apologised but he’d already trapped my foot between his calves.

“It’s mine now,” he grinned.

We fooled around in this manner for a little while then resumed our breakfast.

“Of course we’ll give them a hand if they need it,” I said, after my second cup of milky coffee.

“Not you,” he replied, “That’s too dangerous and you know it. Jack forgot about your situation.”

A sudden thought crossed my mind.

“Peter will be there,” I said, “Not in Banyuls, but on the other side of the border. Oliver swallowed a morsel of bread and jam.

“Possibly,” he concurred. “I don’t mind meeting him. Do you?”

“As long as he’s not asking you to go on a secret mission with him,” I replied.

“I’m over dashing pilots,” he said, with a wicked smile, “I’m a family man now.”


	43. First Cut

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> The contents of this chapter have not been influenced by recent events. Not at all. Not even a bit. Ha ha.
> 
> The boys have started on the journey that eventually will bring them to England.
> 
> Oliver's POV
> 
> STAY HOME, STAY SAFE!!!!

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Note: I have tampered with times and places, but the characters I mention are real people and many of the details about their lives are truthfully reported.

“Do I really have to?” Elio whined, turning the full wattage of his imploring gaze on me.

I had already lost a battle that afternoon: Julien and Jacob had refused to let go of the kittens and when they’d started sobbing, Elio had sent them to me, suggesting that I should be stern and unyielding. He’d then muttered something about helping Jack load the car and left me with a lapful of weeping children.

“Papa, they will die, I’m sure of it,” Jacob had cried.

“Theo and Miriam will take care of them,” I’d replied, wiping his nose with my pocket handkerchief. Julien had scrubbed his face on the sleeve of his shirt and had cast me a disappointed glance. It had more than his sibling’s rage had.

“Cats are not like dogs,” I’d explained, “They won’t do as they are told. Even if you put them in a box, they’ll climb out and run away. Do you propose we take them all the way to England?”

Julien had frowned. “You don’t like them,” he’d murmured, while his brother had burst again into tears.

“Of course I do,” I’d replied, “Which is why I want them to stay safe. Here they will always find someone to feed them.”

“They were starving when Miriam found them.”

“But she did find them.”

Julien had been silent for a while and even Jacob’s sniffles had begun to recede: that’s it, I’d exulted internally: I had succeeded in convincing them.

I’d been wrong.

“It would be easier for you and Elio to leave without us,” Julien had said, “You can’t put us in a box, so why don’t we stay here too?”

“That’s hardly the same.”

“Why not?” he’d asked; and both kids had stared at me, expectantly.

I hadn’t been able to find the words and had given in. I was as wobbly as the Maginot Line, I’d pondered, but the kids, _our kids_, had gone through so much I’d felt vindicated in my weakness.

Jack had turned the ignition key of the second ordeal.

He’d given Elio the once-over and casually commented, “I’d shave off those curls if I were you. It’d make you look less, you know; and more of the other thing.”

“Less what,” Elio had hissed.

“The soft sort,” Jack had replied, undaunted. “Any excuse will do, with these bastards. You want to look as mean as one of them.”

“I won’t look mean,” he said, as soon as we were alone, “Only younger, fourteen or fifteen at the most.”

I smirked. “I could pass you off as my oldest kid.” I pretended to recite in front of an imaginary gendarme. “Monsieur, he’s as dark and skinny as my poor wife.”

Elio growled. “I’ll show you skinny.”

“I’m not complaining.”

He kissed me hard on the lips and pulled my hair.

“You won’t fancy me without my curls,” he groused.

“They’ll grow back,” I smiled. “And I’m intrigued by the possibilities.”

“What possibilities?”

“You might start acting the part,” I said, “Cruel little boy up to no good.”

He eyed me intently. “You’d be into that?”

“I’m into anything that involves you and me, with or without hair.”

He laughed. “Will you do it for me?”

“I’ll be the Delilah to your Samson,” I replied, earning myself a heart-felt glare in return.

I was wielding a gleaming pair of kitchen scissors when Elio had second thoughts and asked if he really had to.

“No, you don’t, but why not listen to Jack? He seems to know his onions.”

He sighed. “Alright, let the carnage begin.”

I grabbed a handful of hair at the nape and shuddered.

“What,” he enquired. “You’re upset too, aren’t you? Let’s not do it; I’ll wear a cap all the time and no one will notice. It’s only hair after all and...ahhhh!” he squeaked.

The first cut is the deepest, as the saying goes.

MJ whistled when we walked into the salon.

“Look at that jaw-line,” she said, “I’d kill for that.”

“Like Greta Garbo,” Miriam concurred. “She could wear her hair that short and still be a goddess.”

Elio granted them a pale smile but he wasn’t convinced. I’d given him a crew cut and while it was true that he looked younger than his age, it was also the case that he seemed less of an artist and more of a soldier.

Julien and Jacob had curled up their noses and gone back to playing with their pets, evidently still upset with Elio for suggesting the kittens should be prised away from them. Miriam had found one of those cages used for chickens and had lined it with the same old blanket she’d used for their basket; the kids were trying to train the kittens to stay inside the cage and it wasn’t going so well, judging by the scratches on the back of their hands and on their forearms. Still, they weren’t giving up, and I noticed that one of the animals, I believe it was Boots, had grown tired and was mewling intermittently, more for show than with real conviction.

I had expected dinner to be a subdued affair but again I was proven wrong.

Beamish liked a drink and so did Jack, but MJ and Miriam would not be left behind, and when Theo took the kids upstairs so they could brush their teeth and take a quick nap, the four of them started recounting anecdotes from their earlier years with Varian.

“There was always something going on,” said Beamish. “I remember the time we had to hide in the cellars of the Hôtel Splendide because an Italian _contessa_, an intimate friend of Mussolini’s, had insisted that she could smell a Jew and that the place be turned upside down because her olfactory prowess was infallible.”

“And they obeyed her?” I asked.

“They couldn’t do otherwise,” replied Beamish. “They would have been accused of collaborating with the enemy. Besides, she was right: I was there.”

Elio wasn’t amused. “That’s disgusting,” he said. “Treating you like a dog.”

“Worse than a dog,” said Jack. “For a dog might yet regain its freedom.”

“But it was fun,” Beamish insisted, “We found a bottle of excellent Montrachet and drank to the health of the _contessa_.”

“Why aren’t you furious?” enquired Elio.

“What good would it do,” the man replied, as he downed what was left in his glass. “I knew from the start that it was going to be a long battle and staying sane was my priority, together with not getting captured. I won’t let them inside my head. That’s what they will never do: own my mind.”

“And Varian,” I started, only to be interrupted by Miriam. “He’s a saint,” she said, “I’ve never met anyone less like a spy than Varian.”

The others expressed their assent.

“No one looks more debonair,” said MJ. “You wouldn’t believe how many people he’s saved thanks to his knack of convincing people to do what he wants while making it seem that they are merely granting him a favour.”

I wasn’t surprised that Peter had been attracted to this man; I doubt many would have resisted him. Maybe even Elio, but he was mine, and as I was thinking that, our eyes met and he smiled; it was one of those half-smiles that cut right through me and I felt it as it burrowed inside my chest and warmed me up, from head to toe. Miriam had noticed and was pouring us more wine. “You’ll need it for the journey,” she said.

“Shouldn’t we be sober?” I remarked.

Jack barked with laughter and so did MJ. “That’s the last thing you should be,” he replied.

Elio winked at me, “Remember the night we met? You thought I was soused.”

“That’s because you were.”

More laughter followed.

“As long as he’s not driving,” said Miriam, and Jack chuckled, “They’d stop him the minute they caught sight of him.”

Elio bristled with annoyance but remained silent. He knew Jack was right so he drank some more, raising his glass and knocking back most of its contents.

MJ passed her cigarette case around and we smoked leisurely, savouring the taste of fine tobacco and the atmosphere of warm camaraderie.

“Nights like these make me feel old and wise,” said Miriam, who was my age, “I just miss Rudolph, I guess.”

She was referring to her husband, who’d already left for the United States. They’d met at the Sorbonne, both art students who had been forced to flee Paris after the occupation. Their paths had diverged when Miriam had been recruited by Fry.

“I wish he’d stayed, sometimes,” she continued, “But most days I’m glad he’s safe. It gives me confidence in the future, knowing that he’s there waiting for me.”

“Something to look forward to,” agreed MJ, “At the end of the rainbow.”

“You are very brave,” exclaimed Beamish, who’d been quiet for a long while. “And so is MJ. What will you do after this awful show is over, I wonder.”

MJ grimaced. “What won’t we do, my dear,” she drawled. “The sky is the limit.”

Jack squeezed her hand. “In your case, quite literally,” he quipped.

She sighed. “Oh, I don’t know. Maybe I’ll find myself another hobby, like writing books. I won’t get married, that’s for sure.”

“You might change your mind,” said Elio, doing his utmost not to look at me.

“She won’t,” said Jack, looking at her, oddly pleased. “My kind of girl, that’s what you are.”

We said our goodbyes and asked Theo to thank her husband for us. Daniel hadn’t returned but she wasn’t worried since she never knew when he might return or depart again.

The kittens were asleep in their metal cage and the kids followed suit as soon they got into the back of the car with Elio.

It wasn’t a long drive, just over three hours, but we were taking the scenic route in order to avoid possible roadblocks.

Luckily, it was an uneventful journey, aside from the occasional gunshot and bonfire smoke which, distant as they were, made for a gloomy reminder of the recent invasion.

Our destination was a small white house surrounded by palm and jacaranda trees. It wasn’t too close to the sea, but the air smelled of it.

All the windows were dark, but I saw the flicker of candlelight behind a curtain.

“I don’t want to wake the kids,” murmured Elio, but the kittens did it for him. They had been quiet up to then but when they perceived that we were no longer moving they engaged on a crescendo of mewls.

“I’ll let them out,” I said, but Julien protested that we should wait until we were inside.

Just as I was about to reply, a girl with a heart-shaped face and plaited hair open the back door and peered out.

“Dinotchka,” Jack called out, “I’ve got a consignment for you. Careful because two of them are scratchers.”

She came out to hug him, but didn’t speak.

“What’s wrong?” he enquired, but she shook her head.

“Come in, all of you,” she urged, “I’ll tell you in a moment.”

The house was modestly furnished but clean and tidy and there was hot coffee waiting for us.

The kittens got their dose of milk and a wicker basket to sleep in, which I carried to one of the rooms that had been prepared for us. Once the boys were tucked in, Elio and I went back downstairs. He already knew our hostess, but I had not properly made her acquaintance.

When we entered the kitchen, we found her deep in conversation with Jack.

“Elio Perlman,” she said with a smile, “And who’s this dashing man?”

I introduced myself and she noticed the ring on my finger.

“It’s a long story,” I said, casting Elio a side-glance.

She didn’t insist and I had the impression that she’d understood everything because her manner towards me changed from flirty to simply amicable.

“Sorry for butting in,” Elio said, pouring coffee into two cups, one of which he gave to me.

“You didn’t,” she replied. “Actually, you know the man in question. Monsieur Levade, remember?”

Elio nodded.

“He’s been shot.”

“Is he... he wasn’t....?”

“He’s still alive, but he didn’t make it to the other side,” she explained. “And now there’s no chance he ever will.”

“Was he captured?”

“No, because it wasn’t him they were shooting at. He was caught in the cross-fire, can you believe that? And the silly old man is happy, can you credit that?”

Jack chuckled.

“Why is he happy?” I asked.

She uttered a sound of disgusted incredulity. “Because – he says – if Matisse is still here, why should he go away?”

“But Matisse isn’t a Jew,” remarked Elio.

“Well, you tell that stubborn old mule because he won’t listen to me.”


	44. Ruination

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Stuff is getting serious but hang in there....
> 
> Elio's POV/ Oliver's POV
> 
> Warning: this chapter is more angsty but I promise it will all end happily.
> 
> Not for everybody, but definitely for the boys and their kids.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> STAY AT HOME, STAY SAFE, I LOVE YOU ALL!!!!

Levade beamed when he saw me.

“Whatever happened to your lovely head of curls, my boy?” he enquired, as if that were the only thing that mattered. His left leg was bandaged and the foot which peeked out was waxen and more like a sculpture than a real limb. He stared at a point behind me, where Oliver stood, waiting to be introduced.

“I usually prefer to immortalise the female form, but for you I could make an exception,” he said, taking Oliver’s hand and giving it a firm shake.

Oliver smiled even as his cheeks coloured. “I hope you won’t ask me to pose in the nude,” he replied.

Dina cackled, “You bet he wants to, but don’t give in easily.”

I stayed silent and the elderly painter studied me with a shrewd gaze. “I’m glad you made it,” he said, patting my hand. “And who are these two little rascals?”

Jacob and Julien lingered on the threshold of the bedroom, their beady eyes trained on the many drawings affixed to the walls.

“These are my two sons,” said Oliver, and the confidence of his lie did something to my heartbeat.

“You can have crayons and paper, if you wish,” Levade said, eschewing the babyish tone some adults direct at children.

Jacob’s eyes widened. “Yes, please,” he gushed, making the painter roar with laughter. That instinctive exuberance was soon quelled by a wince of pain. Dina saw it and shook her head, murmuring something in her native tongue.

“Dinotchka, don’t scold me,” he pleaded. “I’m an old man and this is the land I fought for in the other war. It will still be my land once this madness is over.”

“You don’t fear the Endsieg then?” asked Oliver.

Levade snorted. “Only a madman would believe in victory at this point, and we are not crazy, are we?”

He said something in what sounded like Hebrew and Julien blinked, biting his lower lip. Jacob wasn’t paying attention, distracted by the drawing materials Dina was showing him.

The silence was charged for a moment then Levade’s eyes softened. “You are a noble man,” he told Oliver. “I am not very religious but I believe there is a book where the good deeds of men are tallied up.”

“And what about women?” enquired Dina, in a mocking tone.

“Women are inherently good,” he said, confidently.

She chortled, “Don’t you believe it, old man,” she said, “I have known many a shrew and some of them would have betrayed you for a handful of coins. Judas could have been a woman, for all we know.”

Levade tutted, but it was evident that he enjoyed their verbal sparring.

“I’ll stay with the children,” she said, after a while. “There’s coffee, jam and bread in the kitchen.”

Jack had gone out early, it seemed, and hadn’t yet returned.

We consumed our breakfast in silence but in the distance we could hear the low rumble of battle.

“How close do you think they are?” I asked, scratching the back of my head and pulling a face when I felt scalp instead of hair under my fingertips.

“Not far,” Oliver replied, with a half-smile, “We should keep the children inside.”

“Jacob will be drawing all day if we are lucky and Julien can play with the kittens.”

I rolled my eyes. “Damn animals,” I said, “You were supposed to explain to the boys that we couldn’t travel with a zoo.”

“Oh, I see,” he smirked, “I am the designated stern parent, while you play the affable, permissive one. That’s not how it’s going to work.”

“And how is it going to work?”

“We will be taking turns,” he replied, biting down on his slice of bread. “And you’ll be cleaning their cage.”

I shot him a few imaginary daggers. “Not all the time!”

“Until we set foot in Britain,” he replied.

“The way I see it, if they want their kittens, they’ll have to feed them and keep them clean.”

The discussion went on until Dina rushed in, her eyes gleaming with elation.

“In all this chaos, I’d forgotten the most important thing,” she said, plopping down on the chair close to mine. “You remember when I picked up Charles from the prison and I wondered where I’d heard your name before?”

I nodded and my throat was tight with emotion.

“Samuel Perlman is your father, isn’t he?”

Again, I nodded. Oliver’s hand crept toward mine but halted midway. His socked foot stroked my ankle.

“Don’t ask me how I know, but he’s alive and well,” she went on. “At least he was until recently and I don’t see reason to be pessimistic. He’s been writing for some clandestine newspaper, or at least I have been told it’s him. Wait I have it here.”

She took out a folded piece of paper that had been carelessly torn. I read the two columns avidly and yes, the style was unmistakably my father’s. The date at the top of the page was that of eight days ago. I handed it to Oliver who devoured it as rapidly as I had. His lips stretched into a wide smile. “He’s doing his bit for the Resistance,” he murmured.

“How did you get this?” I asked Dina.

“Your father had many friends when you lived in Paris,” she replied. “And I have met most of them, at one time or another.”

“Is that all the answer I am going to get?”

She chuckled. “You may not be a great thinker like him but you are not stupid.”

“I’m an architect not a complete idiot,” I remarked, trying not to sulk.

Oliver was drinking coffee to hide his amusement but I could read it in his eyes.

“I was only making fun of you,” Dina apologised, “Please forgive me, I seem to have lost my manners along the way.”

I felt chastened and ashamed that I’d let my childish inadequacies see the light of day.

“You should forgive me,” I hastened to reply, “In fact, I am a complete idiot.”

“I shouldn’t have goaded you,” she insisted, “The truth is I can’t tell you where I got this paper. Secrecy is what stands between them and a firing squad.”

“It doesn’t matter where it came from,” I reassured her, “May I keep it?”

“Of course,” she smiled, and stood up to leave.

Later that day, we couldn’t find Julien.

“Spot’s gone,” said Jacob, when Oliver asked him about his brother.

We had been careful with doors and windows, but the kitten was so tiny he could slink through any crack and crevice. His mate was safely curled in Jacob’s lap.

“I’ll kill them both when I find them,” I hissed.

Oliver wanted to help me look, but I told him that it was my turn to be the bad guy.

I searched for them among the trees and the unkempt grass, breathing in the iodine-drenched air. The sky was grey but it was a mild if humid day. It pushed down on me, like the lid of a pressure cooker.

“Julien,” I shouted, and soon I came upon a derelict building, some old stables probably. The door was ajar and the hinges squeaked ominously in the silence. For a moment, I imagined that a fugitive had been hiding there and that he was holding my child at gunpoint, waiting for my arrival.

When I tiptoed in, I saw Julien sitting on a wonky stool petting his kitten to sleep.

My muscles ached for how tense they’d been and I could finally take a deep breath. With relief came anger.

“What were you thinking?” I shouted. “We told you to stay inside the house and you are supposed to be looking after your brother not the other way round.”

He flushed red and bit the inside of his cheek.

“Sorry,” he mumbled, “I lost Spot and I was afraid---”

“Spot would have come back,” I replied, “Cats always do. And if he hadn’t, you should have told us and we would have gone looking for him.”

“You wouldn’t have,” he murmured.

Suddenly, the noise that had been only a roar in the background had become louder and closer.

“We should go,” I said, taking Julien by the arm.

The first explosion made the ground shake.

“Maybe not,” I considered. Julien was trembling and Spot was mewling frenziedly.

I looked around but couldn’t see any place where we could hide. I pulled the child down to the grimy floor and covered him with my body.

A few moments later, there was a terrible bang and a lancing pain down my leg. I tasted burnt dust and blood in my mouth and then I lost my consciousness.

***

The empty cups of coffee on the table had rolled down to the floor and shattered into pieces.

“Are you alright?” asked Dina, when the danger was over.

I was already running upstairs to check on the others. I found Jacob cradled in Levade’s arms, while Boots scurried out from under the painter’s bed.

“We are fine,” Levade said. “Where is his brother?”

“Oh my god, Elio, Julien,” I gasped, swaying as my blood seemed to freeze. I’d hoped against hope that he’d returned with Julien and that they’d gone upstairs.

“Leave the boy with me and go look for them,” urged the elderly man.

I stumbled out of the house like a man in a nightmare.

Plumes of smoke rose from several locations, both near and far. The acrid texture of it made me cough and my eyes stung and watered.

Craters dotted the fields and I was in no doubt that the bombs that had nearly hit us had been dropped by Spitfires. The sheer madness of it: death and destruction by the hand of our friends and allies.

I ran around shouting Elio’s and Julien’s names. Darkness was falling and I couldn’t bear the thought of them being wounded or worse in the frightful blackness of night.

Dina was somewhere behind me: I could hear her shouts echoing mine. It went on for an unbearable length of time, until she was finally calling my name.

I ran toward her and found her scrabbling at the ruins of what had been an outhouse or a stable.

“I think they are here,” she cried, and I fell to my knees and helped her dig, with desperate, shaky fingers, while my heart was like a lump of lead in my chest.

Unwittingly, I noticed how strong Dina was and how determined.

“Lift that beam,” she ordered me, and I did as told, or tried to, sweat pouring down my face and into my eyes.

When I succeeded, I gasped in horror: the lifeless body of Boots lay under it, his tiny frame crushed and mutilated.

Dina removed the scarf she wore around her neck and carefully wrapped the dead feline in its folds.

“Elio, Julien,” I shouted, as I dug my way inside what was left of the building.

“Papa,” was the feeble cry I heard when, at last, I found a hole in the ground, a sort of shallow well. I extracted Julien from it: he was black with soot and covered in scratches, but he seemed alright.

“Give him here,” Dina urged, and after kissing the boy’s face and hugging him to my chest, I complied.

Elio was unconscious and his face was slack and smeared with dirt and blood.

When I touched his neck, it was cold and sticky. I couldn’t find his pulse.

“No, no, no, no,” I chanted, “You are not doing this to me.”

I was afraid to move him, in case his head had suffered a concussion. I touched him all over, trying to assess the damage. The bleeding was coming from a gash in his arm and there were more wounds in his thighs and stomach but they didn’t seem deep. I took his wrist between my fingers and after a lifetime of blind terror, I felt the weak tremor of his heart.

“Slap him awake,” Dina said, “We have to get him out of here and we need to make sure that we can move him.”

I hesitated. “I’ll do it if you won’t.”

I bent down so that we were face to face and saw, with infinite joy, the flutter of his lashes.

“Oliver,” he croaked, “Sleepy---” and shut his eyes again.

“I’m so sorry my dear,” I murmured, and smacked his cheek, feeling like the worst of men.


	45. Aftermath

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> 45th chapter on the 75th anniversary of VE Day which was in '45: very apt, don't you think?
> 
> Elio and Oliver being as fluffily in love as per usual.
> 
> Elio's POV
> 
> STAY SAFE AND STAY AT HOME!!!!

I regained consciousness opening my itchy, grainy eyes on to a silent world.

Silent – that is – apart from the loud, intermittent whistle in my ears. It was not unlike being underwater, if it hadn’t been for my body feeling the opposite of weightless. It was very much present in all its tangibility: heavy, sore and hot with fever.

Dina was smiling and pressing something cold and wet to my forehead.

Oliver was nowhere in sight, but at the foot of the bed, Julien and Jacob were cuddling close and crying.

“Oliver,” I tried to say, and I may have been too loud because the boys jumped up and tumbled into my arms before Dina could stop them. She prised them away, with some difficulty, and sent them out on some errand.

Her lips moved but I couldn’t understand a word. She must have realised because she indicated the bed next to mine. Oliver was lying on it, supine and still as the grave.

“What, how,” I cried, and then I shouted his name.

Dina held me down and tried to explain so I finally told her about my problem.

She nodded and got a piece of paper and a pencil out of the bedside table.

The note said: _he fainted but he’s better now. I gave him something to make him sleep_.

I arched my eyebrows and she quickly scribbled: _I didn’t tell him there were sleeping powders in it_.

This odd conversation went on for a while and from it I gathered that Julien was unharmed, that one of the kittens had died and that I was covered in cuts and scratches but nothing more serious. The loss of hearing was a common side-effect which wouldn’t last long, according to her experience.

Levade hobbled into the room, to Dina’s evident dismay. She touched her ears while she informed him that I was temporarily deaf and he sat on the only armchair in the room; she shook her head despondently, but helped him raise his leg and rest his foot on a low stool.

The boys rushed back in, each holding a steaming mug: one contained coffee and the other a clear broth.

Finally, I noticed that Boots was inside his cage and that he’d dozed off despite the clamour around him. Wise animal, I thought.

I must have followed his example, because when I next took stock of the situation, the sky had gone dark and I could hear again. Not as well as before the explosion, but enough to perceive snatches of the conversation taking place in the room. There was still some noise in the background, like the static in a wireless transmission.

“It’s not your fault,” Oliver was saying, to which Julien was muttering, “Papa could have died,” followed by a series of sniffles.

“Oliver,” I said, and immediately he came to my bedside and his beloved, worried face was inches from mine.

“Is that true that you passed out?” I asked, “Was it really bad? Don’t lie.”

He smiled, and some of the tension in his posture and expression melted away.

“It’s just like you to chide me when it was you who nearly,” he stopped, casting a sideways look at Julien, who was hiding from me. “You were incredibly fortunate, but you gave us quite a scare.”

“You still haven’t answered me,” I insisted. He rolled his eyes and I decided to give him a break. “Julien, come and give me a hug.”

The boy hesitated but a moment later he collapsed in my arms and started sobbing. It hurt like hell, what with all my wounds and my bones feeling like they’d been stretched out on a medieval torture rack, but I let him vent his sorrows and tried to console him as best I could.

“I’m sorry about Spot,” I murmured, and that caused another bout of tearfulness, but it seemed that he was somewhat comforted by the fact that Dina had put the cat’s tiny body in a metal box and buried it under a tree.

“At least, he won’t be eaten by worms,” he sniffled, and that morbid bit of common sense made me smile; when I gazed at Oliver, I saw that he too was diverted by it.

Julien gave me another hug before Oliver took him to his and Jacob’s bedroom.

When he returned, he was carrying a pack of cigarettes which he placed on the nightstand.

“In case you feel like smoking,” he said, and I suspected he was trying to distance himself from what had happened.

“Please tell me you are alright,” I croaked, voice as scratchy as my eyes.

He blinked and his mouth tightened into a pale line. He shook a cigarette out of the pack and lighted it with a shaky hand.

“I couldn’t find your pulse,” he whispered then shuddered at the implication of his words. “You were so still,” he squinted and let out a thin plume of smoke. I caressed his thigh, which felt so familiar and solid beneath my fingers.

“It was always a risk,” I replied, “In London we won’t be safe from it either, unless we hide underground, like mice.”

“The cat would enjoy that,” he remarked, with a pale smile.

“Perhaps we could find a house with a cellar and the boys will camp there with their menagerie.”

He chuckled, more whole-heartedly this time.

“One kitten is hardly a menagerie,” he argued.

“If you believe they won’t adopt more strays once we are there, you are not the smart man I thought you’d be.”

He snorted. “I’m not that smart.”

“That’s right,” I pretended to agree. “I was bewitched by your brawn,” I added, pinching his leg.

We finished smoking then he took off his shoes and looked me in the eye. I nodded and made room for him, scooting closer to the wall.

Gingerly, he lay down alongside me; the heat of him was like the force of gravity: I was drawn to it almost unwittingly. Not that I didn’t wish to be in his arms, but the act of reaching out to him was not mediated by thought: it was pure instinct.

“It was nothing,” he whispered, tickling the shell of my ear, “Just my stupid heart. Dina dosed me but she doesn’t know that I know.”

I giggled, and turned to kiss his bristly cheek. It smelled of smoke and sweat; on second thought, I decided to lick it.

“What in the name,” he protested, but his eyes shone with delight, so I did it again. He nuzzled the side of my head and made a sound of displeasure which prompted my “What’s wrong?”

“I miss your curls,” he said.

“I knew it,” I exclaimed. “You find me unattractive like this, and now I’m half-deaf too, and covered in cuts and---”

He silenced my invective by slipping his tongue in my mouth. I felt his desire in the taut lines of his body and even though he was holding back, I knew that it would have taken very little to get him going. We kissed with unhurried languor and it was like the best drug I could have ever ingested. Minutes later, I was falling asleep with his taste on my lips.

Jack burst in like a clap of thunder.

“I have your documents,” he announced, seemingly uninterested in my state and the fact that Oliver was in bed with me, “A stroke of luck, if you can call it that. A family of four, plus the wife’s brother, were supposed to collect them but they were killed in the bombing of Toulon. Yes, I know it’s terrible, but it suits our purpose.”

“What about you?” asked Oliver, who’d stood up and was raking a hand through his dishevelled hair. “Didn’t you say you were coming to Lisbon too?”

“Change of plans,” he replied. “They want me elsewhere, but don’t worry I will take you to the checkpoint.”

“When,” I enquired.

“Tomorrow night. There will be an operation in Perpignan in the afternoon and that will draw a lot of attention, if you catch my drift.”

“Another bombing,” I said, but he shook his head.

“A train transporting ammunitions,” he explained. “It will keep them entertained for a few hours. You will be met in Portbou: it’s all arranged.”

I didn’t ask who would meet us there because I preferred not to know. I felt Oliver’s gaze on me, but he too didn’t press Jack for further details on that.

He asked about the suitability of the documents and as it turned out, they were acceptable. Dina was a dab hand at replacing photographs and the profiles of the two men and two kids were not so unlike us to be noticeable.

After Jack left to go get his “beauty sleep”, as he put it, Oliver sat on my bed and cupped my face in his hands.

“Will you be strong enough to travel?” he asked, a deep frown forming between his brows.

“Try and stop me,” I replied, and nudged his backside with my knee. “Give me a hand, I need to piss.”

He laughed, and his whole face beamed.

“That’s what we do now isn’t it,” he said in between chortles, “Escort each other to the toilet and hold the other’s hand while taking a leak.”

“I’d rather you held my prick for me,” I countered, and his smile morphed into a leer. “That can be arranged,” he said. “Well then,” I bit back, staring him in the eye. At first, I swayed like a newborn foal, but Oliver held me tight and despite the aches and burns, and a head still filled with cotton wool and buzzing noises, I was able to walk without stumbling or falling down.

Oliver was as good as his word: he wrapped his hand around mine and when I was done and cleaned up, he stroked me the way I liked it until I was fully hard; I slumped back against him and his erection nestled between my buttocks. We didn’t chase our pleasure: we let it envelop and submerge us, until it crested and spilled out, together with the bitterness and fear, and the myriad emotions that we’d done our utmost to suppress.

“You’re just so,” I choked out, as he sat me on the rim of the bath. I searched for the words but he pressed a finger to my lips to silence me.

“You are too,” he rasped. “Everything,” he added, and reached for the soap.

Downstairs, the boys were arguing over the kitten. Jacob felt that he had the right to sole ownership of Boots, since Julien had allowed his kitten to escape and got him killed. His logic was hard to fault.

“Papa told you,” he shouted, “And you let him out.”

“I didn’t”

“Did”

“Did not”

“Liar”

“You liar”

Oliver gave me a look and I cleared my throat, loudly.

“Papa,” shouted Jacob and he would have crawled up my legs hadn’t Oliver scooped him up in his arms.

“Don’t argue with your brother,” he said, “You have to be generous with him.”

The boy sulked but Oliver tickled him in the ribs and belly, making him giggle.

Julien slipped his hand in mine, looking up at me with a guarded expression.

“I’m sorry,” he murmured. “I should have looked after him better.”

I brushed a strand of hair from his eyes. “Cats are like that,” I said, “You’ll do better next time.”

He nodded gravely, seeming older than his age.

“This Papa business is getting confusing,” I remarked, stroking his cheek, “I never know if you are calling me or Oliver.”

“They can call me Daddy,” Oliver intervened, “But not until we are in England. Will you manage till then?”

I sighed, feigning annoyance. “If you insist,” I said.

Dina emerged from the pantry and took Jacob from Oliver’s arms. “Sit down, you silly man,” she ordered, in a tone that brooked no dissent. “Both of you, rest as much as you can.”

“Where is Levade?” asked Oliver, to change the subject.

“I’m here,” said the man, who was leaning on a walking stick and holding a bottle of liquor in his other hand. “Let’s drink to freedom and to the future.”

And so we did.


	46. Fugue

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> The beginning of the end... the boys are on their way to safety
> 
> Warning: Jack... just Jack.
> 
> Elio's POV
> 
> Thanks again for reading and I hope you are staying safe and socially-distant. I love you all.

Waiting is erotic: I’d read it in a novel once and it had stuck with me.

I could imagine a future without war, when the act of waiting might not be fraught with the anxiety that plagued the restless hours before our departure.

Jack had acquired a German motorcycle and a lieutenant uniform: its grey-green was caked here and there with mud, but the silvery piping shone in the clear November light. It was getting colder but nothing like the frosty Parisian autumns, with their grey skies and frequent rain.

Dina and Levade were busy replacing the photographs on our fake papers and we were fortunate that the boys’ didn’t require any on theirs.

We’d have to get used to our names: I was to be Hubert Simon, while Oliver was Jacques Roget and his kids were named Paul and Jean.

We’d explained it to them and they had taken it as a game, screaming their new monikers at each other, getting exhausted and hoarse in the process.

The kitten was eyeing us with wide astonished eyes, as though he was pondering whether all that noise was good or bad. He had been let out of his cage under strict supervision and he’d jumped atop a cabinet so that he could gaze down on us, like one those idols worshipped by the Egyptians.

I was still hearing an intermittent whistle but the buzzing had waned. As for the cuts and the other wounds, I was curing the worst of the pain with ample doses of Dubonnet. Oliver’s own bruises had faded to a sickly yellow hue but I was more worried about his heart. I was terrified that its condition might suddenly worsen and that the excitement of our escape might take a terrible toll.

When I tried to broach the subject, he’d said, “It’s nothing serious, just a minor problem, I told you already.”

“You’d say that,” I insisted, ignoring his annoyance. “You’ve already fainted on me more than once.”

“Not on you,” he mocked.

“When we get to England, you are going to see a specialist.”

He rolled his eyes. “I have seen plenty and here I am.”

“We’ll find a French doctor,” I spat, “I’m not sure I trust the competence of your medics.”

“What about architects,” he joked, ruffling what was left of my hair.

“You’ve not built anything remotely interesting since St. Paul’s,” I lied, “Whereas look at us: our wonders never cease.”

He laughed - that unabashed full-throated laugh I loved so much - “Modesty and Frenchmen are not even remotely acquainted,” he replied.

“It’s not my fault if I was born in the cradle of modern culture,” I countered, to egg him on.

“Whereas we are the bankers and the shopkeepers without an ounce of taste,” he remarked, his eyes twinkling.

“I wouldn’t say that,” I feigned a pensive frown. “You have decent tailors and shoe-makers, but as for the rest,” I sighed and shook my head.

He wrapped me in his arms, and his lips were still stretched in a smile when he whispered in my ear, “I can’t wait to hear you criticise everything in sight.”

I bit his shoulder and shut my eyes, inhaling the scent that was like home to me.

When Father and I had left Paris, we had been just been a few days ahead of the great exodus which had left a trail of bloodshed and destruction. Bridges had been blown up, town and villages torn apart, pillaged and set on fire; fields and orchards replete with fruit and vegetables – it was June – had been ransacked and trampled on by soldiers and their trucks.

The free zone had not been spared its share of horrors but since the Vichy regime had come to power the life in rural villages had been one of relative peace.

That too was gone, and with it came the certainty that Germany was fearful of losing the war and that because of that their cruelty would be relentless.

The day of our departure was characterised by a series of explosions in the near distance: they began early in the morning, before sunrise, and startled me awake. The reverberations reminded me of being buried under the rubble and I gasped for air, rousing Oliver, who instinctively covered me with his body, like I’d done with Julien.

“Jack was right,” he murmured, “It’s likely they will have other fish to fry.”

We went to the window and looked through the chinks in the shutters: plumes of smoke were streaking the horizon and there were bursts of orange and red, like malignant _feux follets_.

“What will we find when we come back?” I said to myself.

“Don’t think about it or you’ll go crazy,” he replied, as he stepped back inside to look for a cigarette. “Lately, I’d begun walking around London with my head down; at the start of the blitz, I used to mourn all the places I knew that had been annihilated, but I couldn’t live like that. It was like a perpetual funeral.”

He passed the cigarette and his thumb brushed over my knuckles as he did so; I shuddered, casually wondering why the chemistry of our bodies was so finely tuned.

“We shouldn’t care so much about possessions,” I said, coughing a bit after the first puff. “But deprived of them, what are we after all?”

Oliver chuckled, “You are your father’s son, when all is said and done.”

“What is that supposed to mean?”

“A budding philosopher,” he replied, bumping his shoulder to mine. “I’d take you and the kids over any Mona Lisa, Gothic cathedral or Palladian villa.”

“You are unusually romantic for an Englishman,” I said, trying to mask the blush that was creeping up my neck.

“I have my moments.” He looked rather smug, so I got rid of the cigarette and pushed him on the bed, but he took me down with him, holding me firmly to break my fall.

“Are you wondering about Peter?” I asked, after a short but very satisfactory interlude of kissing.

“Curious, I suppose. I’d be glad to see him, he’s a good friend.”

I nodded my head, said nothing. I was no longer jealous, but it still bothered me that this man hadn’t wanted to be fully intimate with Oliver. Puzzles intrigued me but I could hardly introduce myself, shake his hand and say “Oh, and by the way, why didn’t you let Oliver eat your ass?”

Oliver nuzzled the underside of my jaw, “Whatever it is that you are thinking, let it go, all right?”

“Fine,” I conceded, and threw my head back so that he could suck on my neck.

“I have heard that the Germans on their way here,” said Dina, dumping a package filled with groceries on the table. She was pale and sweating, tendrils of hair escaping her usually neat coiffure.

“Here, to this house?” asked Oliver.

She slumped down on a chair and asked for a glass of water, which I readily provided.

“Not yet, but they should be in the neighbourhood by sunset,” she replied, “I have to go and have to convince Charles to come with me. You should go too, as soon as you can.”

In the meantime, Levade had limped in and judging by the look on his face, I could tell that he intended to stay where he was.

“I’ll only slow you down,” he said. Oliver helped him into the sturdiest chair and Levade held his hand for a fraction longer than it was needed.

I heard the children’s voices and used it as an excuse to get out of the room. There was a pounding in my head, like a thousand drums. Levade reminded me of my father and the idea that he might be captured and sent to die made me feel sick to the stomach.

In that instant, the roar of a motorcycle engine jolted me out of my reveries.

Jack came in like a gust of wind. He smelled of gunpowder and sweat.

“Get ready and be quick,” he ordered. “A number of German trucks at various locations have been blown up so there will be retaliation. While they deal with that, we’ll sneak out in the other direction. It will be tight, but we are not going very far.”

Oliver had come out of the kitchen and so had Dina, but not Charles. Julien and Jacob were sitting on the stairs, the latter holding Boots in his lap.

“Dina, I’ve found a cart with two horses at the Debreuils’ farm. They won’t need it for a while. You can take Charles with you to his friend Matisse. He’ll hide him somewhere and the Fritz won’t dare disturb the great painter a second time.”

“Charles says he won’t come,” she replied, sounding more deflated than angry.

Jack snorted like an enraged bull and strode to the kitchen.

“Bloody artists,” he growled.

We packed in record time and when we hurried back downstairs, Jack was waiting for us; his face was red and his moustache quivered, like cat’s whiskers.

“The stubborn old mule,” he muttered.

“Why won’t he go?” I asked. “We were in prison together and he was happy to get out. Let me speak to him.”

Dina came to say goodbye, her cheeks stained with tears.

“I had time to think,” Charles said, when I confronted him. He was serene, his expression like that of a martyr, no longer of this world. “I’ll never be a great artist. It’s not false modesty or bitterness: it’s merely the truth. My son is safe and happy and lacks for nothing. I made a will and left him everything I own. One day when the war is over, he’ll be able to return and it won’t be too hard for him to forget.”

“But surely he’ll want you to be safe too,” I objected, raising my voice. I couldn’t understand what he was saying: why would he choose to be deported and almost certainly die?

“I’m not religious, I’ve never cared two straws for any of it, but you see, it mattered to my grand-parents and to their ancestors. Because of it, children like yours are separated from their parents, treated like cattle. I don’t want to deny who I am, no matter what.”

“That’s insane,” I shouted, “If my father did that to me, I’d never forgive him.”

It was at the moment that Jack came in and ordered me to go, that it was time. Despite my anger, I hugged Levade and wished him all the best. I hurried out but Jack lingered. He shut the door after me and I heard a noise, like a heavy thud, then he too came out.

“That’s done,” he said, “He’ll be out for a while. I’ll ask Oliver to give me a hand to put him on the cart. Dina’s already packed the bags.”

“What did you do?”

He winked. “Made sure he stays alive. His head will hurt but it beats being dead.”

The journey started well: the roads were eerily quiet, people went their way in a hurry and cars were few and far between. Many houses had been hit and those that had survived unscathed seemed bereft of life.

Jack rode ahead of us on his motorcycle, wearing his German uniform with the panache that it demanded. That way, our _cortège_ gave the impression that he was escorting some important people and that he would raise hell should we be stopped.

Inevitably, we were stopped before we reached Cerbère.

The checkpoint was impossible to spot from a distance and once you’d seen it, and been seen, there was no way out.

Oliver asked the kids to repeat their names and they didn’t hesitate.

“Hubert,” he said to me, with a tight smile, “Remember your sister just died, in case they ask.”

“Isabelle, your wife,” I replied.

He took my hand and squeezed it, just as Jack’s motorcycle ground to a halt and he started confabulating with a stocky blond man. His companion – shorter but somehow more evil looking – raised his arm, signalling for us to stop. 


	47. Another Country

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Sorry for the delay, my dears, but real life intervened. Nothing serious, but am I the only one who finds it hard to write when reality is such a b*tch?
> 
> Anyway, I hope you are keeping well and staying safe.
> 
> The boys are one step closer to freedom...
> 
> Elio's POV

The German officer marched towards our car with his head held high and his rounded chin jutting out, clearly trying to make the most of his slight figure. His pugnacious bearing could have been amusing were it not for the glint of malice in his blue eyes. They were the same shade as Oliver’s but lacking the latter’s warmth. He scanned the inside of the car like a periscope might have: with equal insensitivity to man, child or beast.

“Papers,” he said, in disdainful French.

Oliver didn’t try to engage him in conversation, having possibly come to the conclusion that it would have made the situation worse. He handed out the bundle of documents and the German snatched it from his grasp and started his perusal.

I couldn’t bear to look at him, so I gazed at Jack instead: I couldn’t tell if he was angry or merely feigning indignation in order to cow the stocky blond man into submission.

Suddenly, I felt Oliver’s elbow nudge my side.

“What is your name?” the German asked, likely for the second time.

“Hubert Simon,” I replied.

“You don’t look twenty-six.”

“Hard work and not enough food,” I said, with a wry smile.

“Are these your children?” he enquired of Oliver, who nodded.

“My poor sister’s, Isabelle,” I interjected.

“They don’t seem sad,” he commented and then he questioned them directly. “Do you miss your maman?”

Jacob was too terrified to say or do anything, but Julien sniffled and rubbed his eyes on the sleeve of his jacket.

The German smirked and after a beat of silence, he dropped the papers on Oliver’s lap. Still, he didn’t move to let us through.

His stance became almost lazy now, as though he had time to spare. Leaning against the front of the car, he lighted a cigarette and sucked on it with almost obscene insolence.

After a couple of drags, he spat at the ground and shook his head, as though he was displeased at something.

“I don’t like cheats,” he said, tilting his head back to gaze at the sky. “A German man caught cheating would shoot himself rather than face the indignity and the shame. How do you live with yourselves?”

Oliver stayed silent, but I felt the necessity to offer some casual response.

“We do our best with what we have,” I said, “We cope.”

He snorted smoke out of his nostrils.

“The superior being doesn’t just cope,” he stated, “He rises above, he commands authority and when his time comes, he doesn’t submit: he chooses the noble way out.”

“And what would that be?” asked Oliver.

The German held his gun to his temple. “This, of course,” he replied, and then, swift as lightning he pointed it to Oliver’s head. “Your problem, you see, is that you forget some of us have been here for months. We know your people,” he leered at me, “Your women. And as it happens, I entertained a brief liaison with Isabelle Roget. She wasn’t keen at first, but I had my way with her in the end.”

With mounting horror, I realised that we’d been discovered and that, unless we got rid of the German officer, he would get rid of us. He didn’t seem the kind that would bother with prisoners: we had fake documents and were trying to escape; killing us would be the least of his problems.

“That’s a very common name around here,” I bluffed.

He scowled at me and his handsome face – he was young enough to be thought handsome despite the signs of cruelty which distorted his features – flushed with rage. However, when he spoke, he addressed Oliver not me.

“I am disappointed in you,” he said, “Aryans should never debase themselves with Jews.”

I couldn’t stand to deny it even though I’d never proclaimed to be Jewish; and not because of pride but rather out of certainty that it would have provoked the man even further. I felt the tension in Oliver’s body and realised he was about to restart the car. That moment seemed to be poised on infinity, the three of us locked into an impasse that could have been broken by any sudden involuntary shock.

And then it happened: three gunshots in a row distracted our man and it was enough for Oliver to shout at us, “Get down,” while he shoved open the car door so that the German officer fell on his backside. He turned on the engine and the car gave a big jolt and roared to life.

I pulled the children down so that they slid to the floor of the car and I crouched down in the nick of time: a bullet broke the glass and zinged past the side of my head. We heard more shots being fired but no other damage was done.

We drove away from the main road and only stopped when it was clear that we were not being followed.

We parked among the maritime pines and when we hugged, the scent of our sweat mingled with the salt in the air.

The kids were trembling and the kitten was frantic with fear.

“He was right,” I said to Oliver, as the kids fed Boots some milk from a bottle. “We forget that they live with us. You can hardly spend years in a prison and not get acquainted with some of the inmates.”

“Bad luck,” he replied, squeezing my hand, “We better get a move on before they catch up with us.”

I got the map out and for a while we studied it, trying to assess our position.

We unfolded between us and as we ducked down to examine it, we heard an explosion; it was about a mile away, and it was followed quickly by a second and a third. The noise drowned out all other sounds so that when Jack’s motorcycle came into view, it caught us by surprise.

“Jack, Jack!” shouted the kids and they would have rushed out of the car, hadn’t Oliver bellowed, “Stay where you are!” with such fatherly authority that brought a lump to my throat.

“Took me a while to find you,” he exclaimed, as soon as he was within earshot.

His uniform was spattered with blood and there was a smear of it on his cheek.

“What happened?” asked Oliver.

“A trap,” he replied. “They expected us; well, maybe not us, but someone like us. They weren’t too sure about me, luckily; thought I might be genuine item tricked by two imposters.”

“You shot them both,” I said, matter-of-fact.

“I would have spared yours, but he was a right bastard.”

He must have been younger than me, I thought, and now he was dead. Everything about him had repulsed me and yet... and yet.

“The worst is over,” said Jack, whose elation was part adrenaline and part the devil-may-care attitude of those who relish danger. “The Allies have bombed the railway crossing at the border. We can through that way and we should be in Portbou in less than two hours.”

This time, everything went smoothly: we remained at the periphery of the action, staying off the main roads. Once or twice, we were overtaken by trucks, but they were in a hurry to reach their destination and didn’t pay us any mind.

We were nearly in Spain when Jack’s motorcycle had a puncture and he was forced to drive with us. He replaced Oliver behind the wheel and I went to sit with the kids.

On the other side, the officer who checked our documents knew Jack. The latter didn’t say a word, but I caught an eloquent exchange of glances and a sleight of hand that implied the payment of a bribe.

Oliver whispered in my ear, “How’s your Spanish?”

“_Buenos dias_,” I replied, “And not much more. But I understand most of it. Latin roots, you know. How about you?”

“I’ve never had the chance to practise,” he replied, “But I hope we won’t stay here long enough to need to.”

Jack - who had changed his attire when he’d found us and was now wearing a plain blue jacket – got back into the car and slammed the door.

“I owe one to Dinotchka,” he said, “That girl is a marvel, let me tell you. One in a million, she is.” He eyed Oliver, who was busy lighting cigarettes for all of us. “Ever been tempted by, you know, the other side of the moon?”

“I wouldn’t say tempted,” Oliver replied, and he winked at me as he passed me the cigarette. “I admire the merchandise; I’m just not interested in purchasing it and taking it home with me.”

Jack chuckled and turned his head to glance at me.

“Women only want to mother me,” I said, truthfully. “I don’t inspire lust but a more platonic affection.”

The children had fallen asleep, but Julien suddenly open his eyes a fraction to ask, “What’s lust?”

“We’ll tell you when you’re older,” I replied, “Go back to sleep.” The kitten had been taken out of his cage and was softly purring on Jacob’s lap.

“It takes all sorts,” Jack commented. “I’ve never tried it myself, but who knows what the future will bring.”

These were the last words spoken on that journey: we had been tense and scared and now that those emotions had abated, we found solace in the peace of our companionable silence.

All my life, I’d never moved around as often as I was doing now, trying to escape the consequence of belonging to a race that was famed for wandering in search of a promise land.

I had always felt at home in France, as much as a young man who wasn’t interested in the trappings of nationalism could hold such convictions. The longer I spent on the run, the more intensely I believed that I was on the side of those who put humanity above ideals, and solidarity above blood.

The promise land wasn’t a goal that appealed to me, because its idea already contained the germs of discrimination: some people would be always on the outside, looking in.

The house was a white-washed building with damp patches on the walls and wooden shutters painted bottle-green.

It was afternoon but the light was muted, like in a Constable painting.

Jack knocked twice and after a pause another three times. We waited inside the car, the engine still running.

After an interminable minute, the front door opened noiselessly, and a curly-haired head peered out. It was a young boy, twelve or thirteen, dark-skinned and with eyes the colour of coal. A memory returned to me: it must be the same kid who’d delivered the map to my office.

“Mateo, is anyone in?”

The kid, Mateo, shook his head, a sullen look on his oval face; he seemed to shut the door but he was only unlatching it.

Jack motioned us to get out of the car and into the house, while he went to park somewhere at the back.

The children had perked up as soon as they’d seen the other boy, glad to finally meet someone closer to their age.

Inside, it was messier than any of the places we’d been in, signalling the absence of any feminine presence.

When I voiced this opinion, Oliver snorted. “You haven’t met my friend Sally,” he quipped.

“Is that part of the merchandise you admired but never purchased?”

He looked around to make sure no one was watching then kissed me on the lips, licking at the seam until I opened up to let him in.

Vaguely, I heard a noise coming from upstairs: it was a faint creaking. Maybe there are rats, I thought.

Jack came back and showed us our rooms. The boys where sharing with Mateo and they were delighted. The Spanish boy spoke decent French, enough for them to understand each other. We had a quick dinner of cold ham, olives and bread. Thankfully, there was wine too, and in a matter of hours we were ready for bed.

It was maybe an hour after we’d retired that we heard Jack leave. He hadn’t mentioned it, but we had learned to expect the unexpected from him.

Again, we heard that creaking noise.

“What if someone’s hiding in the attic?” I murmured.

“I didn’t know you were a fan of Regency drama,” Oliver replied, his smile pressed to my neck.

“Let’s make sure we are not going to be murdered in our sleep,” I replied, as I let him stroke my chest and my stomach. If he’d gone any lower, I’d forgotten the possible intruder and the persistent whistle in my ear.

“Alright,” he said, instead, and his legs untangled from mine.

We were listening at the door, when the creak revealed itself for what it was: the footsteps of someone tiptoeing down the stairs.

“Now,” Oliver whispered, so we slipped out and waited for the intruder to come into view.

When he did, Oliver’s breath hitched and I didn’t need any further introduction: it was Peter Gregory.


	48. Peter's Tale

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> We are nearly there, my dears!!!
> 
> Peter and Oliver have a chat, Elio is a tiny bit jealous and there's a mention of boats which is truly coincidental...
> 
> Oliver's POV

It was like one of those dreams in which you are confronted by a landscape that is at once familiar and alien, and you feel so unsettled by this jarring contradiction that you want to run away only to find yourself rooted to the spot.

Peter was the same and yet he wasn’t: he was somehow more alive and less debonair, as though a layer of Englishness had been scraped off, and with it the unscarred paleness of his skin. He was tanned and slim; his grey eyes shone silver in a leaner face.

“Oliver,” he exclaimed, in genuine surprise. “I had no idea.”

I just stood there, unable to speak. Behind me, Elio cleared his throat.

“You must be the architect,” Peter said, offering his hand and a smile.

“Elio Perlman” was the reply, “I’ve heard so much about you.”

They shook hands, but I could only register that Peter’s French had dramatically improved, even though his accent was far from convincing.

I could not bring myself to believe that I had been in love with this man only a few months ago and that I’d risked my life to come to his rescue. I must have been staring at him because Elio was frowning and flaring his nostrils.

“You must be starving,” I said to Peter.

He laughed and clapped me on the back. “We’ll feel better after a glass of wine,” he replied.

Elio excused himself and went back to bed. I knew that he wished to give us some space and allow us to speak English without seeming rude, but his sudden absence left me a little bereft.

Peter poured two glasses of red wine and we drank to our reunion. After he’d eaten – devouring cold ham, olives and bread – he finally recounted his story.

His plane had been hit but he’d survived thanks to luck and the fortuitous presence of a clump of willow trees which had broken his fall. His right leg was hurt but not broken and all his other wounds were superficial. After hiding for days around orchards and farms, he was rescued by an elderly couple whose son had been killed by the Wehrmacht.

“Not only did they nurse me back to health and helped me learn their language, but they put me in touch with someone from the Maquis. I will never forget what they did for me.”

I thought it was time to ask a more personal question.

“Was it then that you met Varian Fry?”

His lips twitched into a smile and his gaze dropped to the surface of the table.

“News travels fast,” he replied, and took another sip of wine. “We met a week or so after my first contact with the Resistance. He didn’t even ask if I was willing to help: he simply gave me a list of things to do and I wasn’t able to say no.”

“You had no problems saying no to me,” I bit back. I wasn’t jealous, but that didn’t mean I was not hurt by his indifference to my feelings. For all he knew, I might have been desperate and grieving, and to some extent I had been, until I’d met Elio.

“Touché,” he murmured, “But I found out where you were and sent you a message through Mateo.”

I snorted. “You call that treasure-hunt clue a message?”

“He could have been captured and my letter to you would have been intercepted; it was too risky. I was certain you’d be clever enough to understand the meaning of that map.”

I didn’t see the point of arguing. “Yes, we did.”

He arched one eyebrow and fished out a pack of Virginias from his trousers pocket.

“You and Perlman then?” he enquired, lighting two cigarettes and handing me one.

I looked him straight in the eye, “Yes, and two kids and a kitten.”

He let out a low whistle. “A proper little family,” he remarked. “Not his kids, I assume.”

I explained about Julien and Jacob and Peter’s eyes softened and glistened with tears.

“Makes our ordeals seem unimportant in comparison,” he commented. “Varian set his goal at one hundred people, but he’s already helped at least five hundred. He and his friends are risking their own lives and spending money out of their own pockets just because it’s the right thing to do.”

“You admire him.”

He nodded, “Wouldn’t you?”

“I think he’s simply marvellous. Am I going to meet him?”

“I’m afraid not. He’s in danger from both sides.”

“How do you mean?”

Peter shot me a glance that was so filled with fury I nearly flinched.

“His own country, can you believe it? They will send him back if they get hold of him. Sticking his nose where he shouldn’t, they said; as if saving people from certain death was a luxury they couldn’t afford.”

“And you are hiding here.”

He licked the corner of his mouth, pensively.

“I’m only passing by,” he said, “I was supposed to go meet somebody but their train got derailed. I wasn’t sure what to do next, so I came back here waiting for Jack to return.”

“Will you accompany us to Lisbon?”

His expression turned mischievous. “I very much doubt your Elio would be on board with that.”

“I don’t see why not,” I huffed.

Peter chuckled, “The way he gripped my hand earlier.”

I tried not to gloat. “Not too hurtful, I hope.”

“Latin people are very passionate,” he quipped. “You have some of that blood in your veins.”

“Hardly,” I replied, but secretly hoped he was right. “But it’s true that he doesn’t hold back and I have learned to appreciate that.”

“You always have. British restraint was stifling you.”

“Dying from extreme politeness,” I agreed, and we shared a complicit smile.

“I have been rescued by American brashness and you by Gallic savoir-faire.”

“In Elio’s case, it’s probably Gallic brashness.”

He put his hand on mine. “I’m glad you are happy,” he said.

“Frees you from any obligation to me,” I countered. “Not that you felt any, if we are being honest.”

“If we are being honest, you have to admit that this,” he motioned to indicate the two of us, “was going nowhere. It wasn’t just a bit of fun, but we couldn’t have built a life together.”

“Probably not,” I agreed. “And you are right: I am very happy, considering.”

“You’ll be happier once you are back in England.”

I conceded the point. “And what about you?”

He shrugged. “I am a free agent, of sorts. I’m part of the resistance, but they let me be. If I don’t get shot or worse, I’ll stay until Varian does. After that, who knows? We live hand to mouth and it’s not as bad as I thought it would be.”

“You always were the adventurous type, with your ratty little planes that were supposed to be indestructible,” I said, with more fondness that I’d intended.

“I’d take you home myself, if I could get hold of one of those ratty planes,” he replied.

“We’ll take our chances on a boat.”

He smirked. “Remember the Titanic,” he mocked. I kicked him in the shin and he burst into laughter.

I closed the bedroom door as softly as I could, but Elio wasn’t asleep.

“Had quite a lot of fun, from what I could hear,” he mumbled.

“Reminiscing like two old friends,” I replied, sitting on his side of the bed.

“He’s very handsome in a manly, rugged way.”

I smiled even though he couldn’t see me in the dark and with eyes staring at the wall. “He certainly is. That’s your type, if I am not mistaken.”

He hummed, “Could be.”

“He’s changed a lot,” I went on. “I can hardly believe we were together that way.”

Elio rolled over and pushed the covers down to reveal his shirtless torso and the peaks of his hipbones.

“What way?” he enquired, a little breathless.

I straddled his thighs and ran my hands down his chest, flicking his nipples with my thumbs. Elio arched into the touch and his prick strained the front of his pants.

“This way,” I murmured, and bent down to lick at his throat. He tried to guide me into a kiss, but I wanted to taste his body first. The salt of his sweat had made me hard and I wished to fill my mouth with it. I pinned his arms to his sides and mouthed at his collarbones. I soon moved down to suck on his tight tits; I teased them with the tip of my tongue then when Elio started begging, I bit down, almost breaking the skin. He bucked into me, stifling a scream.

“Your cock is all wet isn’t it,” I hissed, feeling more and more like an animal.

“Suck it,” he panted.

“And what about these,” I asked, letting go of one of his arms so that I could fondle his balls. They were hard and ready to burst.

“Fucking lick them,” he growled.

I pushed his pants down and nuzzled his crotch; his pubic hair was damp and I inhaled its musk. Elio scratched at my nape, but didn’t pull my hair; he was letting me do what I liked, and I rewarded him by taking his sac in my mouth.

“Oliver, oh god,” he moaned, and I closed my fist around his prick, feeling it swell even further.

Later, when we kissed, we tasted of each other’s spend. My chest hair was matted with Elio’s come because he’d wanted to mark me after he’d first shot down my throat.

“Better now?” I asked, my voice thick and hoarse.

He nodded and pinched my ass. “Much,” he replied, with a wicked little smile.

“We are married, remember?”

“Hmm, but it’s worth reminding you, now and then.”

“Marking your territory,” I joked.

“Nothing shameful about that,” he pouted, pinching more viciously.

I soothed the bruise that was already blooming around one of his nipples. “On the contrary,” I said.

We fell asleep soon after but we awoke when it was still dark. Elio was staring at me with a strange expression in his eyes and we fell into a kiss that became deep and intense and left us breathless.

“I’m sorry,” he murmured. “We are so close to having the life we want and I am behaving like a child.”

“Nothing to be sorry about,” I whispered back, “I don’t mind if you are a little bit jealous.”

He chewed his lips and shook his head, looking like a disgruntled puppy.

“It must have been the shock,” he continued, “And yet I was sure we were going to run into him. We’d talked about it but somehow it’s always different, when it’s real.”

“He won’t come back to England; not now anyway.”

“Is Varian Fry the only reason?”

I stroked his ear and he pressed his cheek to the palm of my hand.

“That, and the fact that he probably doesn’t want to go back to test-driving planes. Not when he’s more useful here.”

Elio looked up at me with a seductive flutter of lashes. “Pilots are sexy, especially in uniform.”

I tweaked his nose. “You’d better be joking,” I said, and he giggled, all his dismay seemingly gone.

At breakfast, Elio insisted that he wanted to bring Peter his morning coffee.

“I wish to thank him for what he’s done for me, for us.”

I laughed. “He may be assimilating well, but he’s still an Englishman,” I replied. “To us feelings are like internal organs: they exist and we need them but we don’t talk about them unless it’s a matter of life and death.”

“That’s why I’d like to do it in private,” he argued.

Mateo and the children had already gone back to their room, taking their bread, jam and milk with them. They’d also found a tin of sardines and they couldn’t wait to feed it to Boots.

While we were discussing him, Peter came into the kitchen. He was unshaven but his hair was combed and still wet from his ablutions.

“I was about to come up to you,” Elio said, in English, “With your coffee.”

“Breakfast in bed,” Peter sighed. “Bacon, scrambled eggs and Devonshire cream.”

I shot him an amused look. “You never cared for Devonshire cream.”

“And I still don’t,” he quipped.

Elio look endearingly befuddled and I loved him and everything was going to be alright.


	49. No Goodbyes

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Hi guys, sorry for the long delay but life happened (nothing major just life)
> 
> What a week it's been uh? 
> 
> Anyway, he comes our favourite couple, being cute and fluffy as per usual. These are their last days in Spain before they sail to England.
> 
> Elio's POV

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thanks so much again for your patience. We are two, maybe three chapters from the end, so the wait is not going to be long.
> 
> I love you all and am so grateful you are still here with me.
> 
> Be safe!!!!

During our short stay in Spain, I discovered that Peter was very different from the man I’d imagined. I had figured he’d be cold and distant, a practical man lacking a sense of fun. In fact, he loved playing with the kids and cracking jokes they couldn’t understand because his French wasn’t yet up to scratch.

He liked music and dancing and had managed to obtain an ancient gramophone on which he played the only two records he owned.

I was afraid the noise would attract attention but – as he rightly remarked - the house was situated away from the road and the closest neighbours were too far away.

“Dance with me,” he said, “Oliver hates it.”

“I’m too tall for modern music,” Oliver quipped. “I would have been more at home in the Regency era.”

Peter then shook his head and snorted, “With all that curtsying? I doubt that very much.”

In the end, I agreed to dance with him, and while I enjoyed the exercise and the fun of doing something silly and light-hearted, the best part was Oliver’s intent gaze on me and the passionate embraces that followed once we were alone in our bedroom.

Jack had returned a day after our arrival, bringing provisions and the news that he might be able to buy us a passage onto a boat that would depart from Lisbon in a fortnight.

“What do we do in the meantime,” Oliver asked. “I’d like to help if I can.”

Jack scratched his unshaven jaw and exchanged interrogative glances with Peter.

“What is it,” Oliver intervened, his voice quiet, like it always was when he was irritated. “You don’t trust us to do our bit? We have before, haven’t we Elio?”

I recalled the man I had murdered back in Lavaurette and I could hardly believe it hadn’t happened in another lifetime.

“Of course,” I replied. “We don’t expect food and board for free.”

Peter raised his hands. “This is ridiculous,” he said, and to Oliver, “Do you have any money left after you’ve paid for your passage to England?”

Oliver nodded.

“We can use the money without compromising your safety,” said Jack. “There’s work at the farms, but it’s too risky considering you don’t speak Spanish and look too Aryan to be anything but German or American.”

We agreed with him and with Peter, and from that day until our departure, we did our best to pretend that we were on holiday. Oliver passed his afternoons teaching English to the children or discussing with Peter about the situation back home.

The latter insisted that staying in London would be madness, but Oliver didn’t seem inclined to want to move to the countryside.

“People will notice us there,” he insisted. “Two men living together with two kids and no women: we wouldn’t hear the end of it. Besides, they would try to enrol us on all kinds of committees and stick their noses in our business. They’d try to find us wives.”

Peter laughed but didn’t deny any of it. “You could find somewhere relatively solitary.”

“Even the remotest corner of the country must be teeming with life,” Oliver argued. “London is a ruin and people will be too busy staying alive to mind about us.”

“Your old flat might not be there any longer.”

“We’ll try our luck, won’t we Elio?”

I took his hand and squeezed it, while Peter looked away, out of politeness rather than embarrassment.

“And what about the kids,” he insisted. “You won’t keep them there when Londoners send them away will you?”

“They will stay with us,” I said, and Oliver concurred: “We’ll find a way.”

Peter didn’t object further and I appreciated his discretion.

I forget what steered the conversation in that direction, but late one evening, after we’d played cards and smoked too many cigarettes – in Spain they were easier to find – Peter wondered whether I played an instrument.

“Why do you ask?”

He shrugged. “Your fingers,” he said, “Someone I used to know,” he cleared his throat and glanced at Oliver, who burst out laughing.

“Someone playing at the Pink Sink,” he enquired, with a half-smile.

Peter waved the suggestion away, but he was smirking too. “It was a long time ago, before I met you.”

“I used to play the piano,” I replied, flexing the fingers of my right hand. “I stopped for a while, but I’ve started teaching Julien.”

“I miss live music,” Peter said, wistfully, “The hustle and bustle, the easy joy of it.”

“I love Bach,” I remarked, smiling. “Hardly any bustle in it and the joy is very contained.”

He chortled. “Match made in heaven,” he commented, “Oliver can’t stand jazzy stuff either.”

Oliver protested that it was a lie, but Peter would have none of it. Their banter would have made me jealous once but I saw that there was no sexual tension to it: they were like Julien and Jacob when they argued about kittens.

Soon the discussion reverted to me.

“I bet that they are looking for players,” Peter said. “And you are young and easy on the eye.”

Oliver glared at him.

“Keep calm and carry on,” Peter joked, but he understood that he’d tested Oliver’s limits and he immediately drew back. “I was only trying to help but it’s hardly any of my business.”

“It’s not a bad idea,” I interjected, to clear the air, “An additional string to my bow.”

We drank a nightcap and went upstairs, while Peter stayed behind writing letters that he’d have to encode in order to avoid them being censored.

“We are not flirting, I hope you realise that,” I said, after we’d gone to check on the kids and had returned to our bedroom.

Oliver kicked off his shoes with more vigour than usual.

“He’s always been more fun than I could ever be,” he muttered.

I pulled him down by the back of his shirt so that his head was on my lap. I raked a hand through his hair, which had darkened slightly now that it was no longer bleached by the sun. “But I’m not looking for fun,” I murmured, as my hand travelled down his body and reached the placket of his trousers.

“What are you looking for?” he husked, his hips stuttering, reflexively seeking friction.

I palmed his half-hard prick and he turned his head so that he could tease my erection through the slit in my underpants.

“Possession,” I replied, my tongue feeling thick and heavy.

Quickly, I undid his buttons and got his cock out. I could have taken him in my mouth but I liked the idea of pleasuring him this manner, the way of clandestine encounters in seedy bars and dark alleyways. He seemed to understand because he took what he was given while humming his contentment as I fed him my dick.

It was fast, hard and messy and left us both sated and sweaty.

“You are loads of fun,” I said, later, as I closed my eyes.

“Flatterer,” he chuckled, pressing a kiss to the back of my head.

I couldn’t imagine ever going to sleep again without him by my side.

Peter was great with engines and machinery in general and often Jack would pick him up and take him some place to fix a truck or farm equipment.

Spain was reluctantly landing a helping hand to Germany, but its economy was partly dependent on the States, so we felt safer here than in France. It was easy to forget what was happening, in that quiet and still mild late autumn.

The children had adopted Mateo as their honorary elder brother and were speaking an incomprehensible blend of their mother tongue and Spanish, with a sprinkle of English. The three of them took care of Boots, who was now growing fat and spoilt like a miniature prince.

It was a strangely enjoyable interlude that Oliver and I would remember with fondness in the years to come.

Two days before our departure, Peter left on one of his engineering expeditions but he did not return for dinner.

“The farmer must have invited him to stay,” I said, “Food in exchange for work.”

We stayed up late, drinking liquor and playing gin rummy.

It was around midnight when we heard the front door open and then click shut.

Oliver called out to him, but it was Jack who replied.

“He’s not coming back,” he announced. “He and Varian are driving back to France as we speak.”

Oliver was speechless but I wasn’t in the same predicament.

“Why didn’t he say anything? And isn’t it too dangerous to go back now?”

Jack sat down and poured himself a measure of brandy; he tossed it back and swallowed it down with a satisfied moan.

“He told you that he was passing by,” he replied, but then realised he’d been too abrupt and went on explaining, “He had no idea when he’d be off and he couldn’t come back to say goodbye. That’s the way it goes, I’m afraid.”

Oliver plucked a cigarette from the Jack’s pack and he was frowning as he took the first drag.

“It feels so abrupt,” he said, “And we were hoping to meet Fry.”

“One day, when this is all over,” Jack replied, “We’ll have one big party, drink, eat, sing, dance and stay up all night.”

“Not if the Nazis get their way,” I argued.

“They won’t,” said Oliver, forcefully. “But how much will they take from us on their way to failure, that’s what I worry about.”

Jack threw him a puzzled look. “I’m too tired and not clever enough to give you an answer. I’ll see myself to bed.

He squeezed Oliver’s shoulder, nodded at me, and walked out of the room.

I took Oliver’s cigarette and stubbed it out then sat on his lap and kissed his bristly cheek.

“It’s better this way,” I murmured, “No one likes to say goodbye to an old lover.”

“It brought all the memories back,” he replied, in a dreamy voice, “And yet the feelings are not the same at all.”

“Like an ancient wound that only aches when the weather’s bad,” I suggested.

He bit the inside of his mouth and his eyes were bright with tears.

“It’s that sensation of not mattering, of being so easy to live without,” he said, softly. “I no longer care what he thinks of me, but no one likes being reminded of how once they were ditched like a pair of old shoes.”

I kissed his closed eyes and soon my lips were wet.

“I would never do that to you,” I whispered. “You mean everything to me, you and the boys and my father, that annoying know-it-all.”

Oliver let out a strangled giggle.

“I would always find my way back to you,” I went on, my breath on his face, “And I am certain you would do the same.”

He hugged me to his chest and we stayed like that for a while, sharing warmth and the easy comfort of true affection.

That day had been unseasonably hot and so had the evening. As we were walking upstairs, we heard the distant rumble of thunder and the splashing of rain against the window-panes.

Suddenly, the house seemed too stifling, like a prison or a coffin.

“Come,” I said, linking my fingers with Oliver’s. “Let’s go out.”

He stared at me. “But it’s pouring down,” he objected.

“We’re being indoors all day, it will do us good.”

“I’m not taking my clothes off,” he remarked, but the smirk on his lips told a different story.

When I flung the door open, the rain was coming down in sheets and the night was so black we couldn’t see past the courtyard. The olive trees shook under the onslaught but at least the lightning was distant, the bolts of electricity illuminating the darkness with exciting unpredictability.

“Over there,” Oliver shouted, indicating the largest tree, which provided a modicum of shelter.

By the time we’d got there, we were both soaking wet.

“You are mad,” he said, but he was no longer maudlin. I opened his shirt and licked the drops of rain off his chest, sucking at his nipples. He hissed and yanked at my hair, bringing our lips together in a deep and biting kiss. I dropped down on my knees on the sodden ground and this time I did use my mouth to bring him off; he shot his load down my throat but the last, most powerful pulse landed on my throat; he lapped at it as I ground against his body, shouting his name as I reached my climax.

“We could stay here and go again,” I gasped, “I could get inside you, if your decrepit joints can take the strain.”

He laughed and ruffled my drenched curls. “You look like a wet puppy dog.”

“That’s not very sexy,” I pouted.

“That’s what you get for calling my joints decrepit.”

We smiled at each other. Time seemed to have stopped.


	50. Return of The Native

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Almost there, guys!!!!  
Elio and Oliver travel towards their future.
> 
> What a day, uh? Well, every single time I write there seems to be a resonance with real life but what can I say? I don't do it on purpose...
> 
> Oliver's POV

I almost wish I could say that the rest of our journey was as eventful as what had preceded it, but in truth it was devoid of incidents.

The only real blot on the canvas was the children’s distress when they realised that Mateo wouldn’t come with us.

Hours before we left our safe haven, a short swarthy man with hairs sprouting out of his ears and nostrils knocked at the door. Jack embraced his rifle and gestured to Mateo to go see who it was. No sooner had the boy opened it a chink that the man burst in, grabbing Mateo with his hirsute paws and hugging him to his broad, sweat-soaked chest.

“What the hell,” said Jack, dropping his weapon and staring interrogatively at the two of us. We had been standing behind him, ready to pounce.

A brief and loud exchange ensued, from which I gathered – more by intuition than full understanding – that the man was Mateo’s uncle, who’d been a prisoner of Franco’s regime and had been released so that he could join the war effort. Naturally, Jack translated later, he had no intention of doing that and instead he intended to escape to the island of Madeira, where his relatives owned a gardening business. He’d been searching for his nephew and had got the information he needed from a lady who – according to Jack – was a “good pal of his”.

Elio snorted when he heard that, and I nudged him in the ribs but with no real intent.

“What if I amuse myself a little?” Jack remonstrated, struggling to smother a smile.

Mateo seemed more astonished than pleased, used as he was to his role of mascot of the resistance, and uncertain whether he wanted to return to the drudgery of being an ordinary schoolboy.

Julien and Jacob – who had been packing their bags and taking care of the kitten – hurried downstairs to see what the commotion was about, but were instantly shy when they set eyes on the newcomer.

Jacob hugged my leg while Julien squeezed Elio’s hand, demanding his attention.

We took them to the sitting room and told them that Mateo was lucky to have been reunited with his uncle and that he would now be safe, since Portuguese Madeira was not taking part in the conflict.

“Papa, do you think he’s happy?” asked Julien, while Jacob was sniffling in Elio’s arms.

“He will be,” I replied, not wanting to lie. “It always takes some time to get used to something new.”

“But what if our parents come back and don’t find us?”

His eyes were huge and filled with sorrow.

“We will come back, one day,” I replied. “And if they are here and you want to be with them, Elio and I will understand, won’t we?”

Elio gazed at me and then at Julien and nodded.

“But I don’t want to leave you,” wailed Jacob, burying his tear-stained face in Elio’s neck.

“Then we’ll stay here with you and your parents,” I said, “We’ll be one big family.”

“Would you?” asked Julien, frowning a little.

“Of course,” I answered, not even stopping to consider, “There’s nothing more important than you.”

“And Boots,” added Jacob, with a tiny smile.

“He’ll be all grown up by then,” Elio remarked. “Maybe he’ll have his own family.”

That seemed to please the boys no end, and thus peace was restored.

We had tea with Mateo and his uncle, whose name was Pablo. He had a vast appetite and Jacob was transfixed by the speed with which he devoured the bread and butter he was served.

His time in prison had left him in constant fear of starvation, which he dreaded more than the curtailment of his freedom.

“You seem in good shape,” I said, using Jack as a translator.

“As soon as I got out, I spent days eating like a pig,” he replied, unashamedly. “I was like one of those Ancient Romans, gorging myself and being sick then starting all over again. It will pass, they say. Once on the island, I’ll go fishing; that should calm me down.”

He smoothed down Mateo’s hair, carefully, as though he was afraid to hurt him.

“My sister was shot and so was her husband, Javier. The boy knows; we never hid it from him. What good would it do, to let him hope in vain? Lola and I will love him as though he was ours. Lola is my elder sister; she’s a widow, but no kids.”

“How will you get to Madeira?” asked Elio.

“I have my contacts,” Pablo said, with a shrewd smile, “Prison is quite useful that way.”

Soon it was time for us to leave, and for the kids to say goodbye to their friend: tears were spilled, fervent hugs exchanged, and both Julien and Jacob were so exhausted by the end of it all that they fell asleep the moment they sat in Jack’s car.

The drive to Lisbon was – as I said – perfectly untroubled and smooth, but the same cannot be said for my state of mind. In my head, I was already in London, and now that it was about to happen, I was frightened of all the things that could go wrong: what if my flat had been bombed and we had trouble finding accommodation? What if Elio hated it and resented me and wanted to go back but couldn’t, stuck as he would be with me and two kids that didn’t belong to us in the first place? What if he was made to feel like a stranger or worse an enemy? What if he tired of me when he’d come to realise that I was only a dreary cog in the ponderous machinery of war? My heart whistled in my ears and didn’t see the view outside the window or understand what Jack was telling me.

“What?” I said, after he’d raised his voice to get my attention.

“I don’t know what you are daydreaming about,” he replied, “But judging by your expression, it doesn’t look good.”

I turned to check whether Elio was listening but his head was lolling on his neck and he was clearly asleep.

“It’s close to being real,” I said, “Until now it’s only been a possibility but soon it will be our life, and we have never experienced boredom together.”

He laughed. “Boredom,” he barked, “That’s a good one! There won’t be any of that for a while, don’t you think?”

“London is nothing like Paris,” I went on, sounding idiotic even to my own years, “It lacks the stimulation, if you see what I mean.”

“Elio seems the sort that brings the show with him wherever he goes, so to speak.”

I didn’t quite understand what he was saying and he saw it in my face.

“What I mean is that he doesn’t need to be entertained. He’s like MJ: she’s self-sufficient, doesn’t need a man.”

I grimaced.

“Wanting isn’t the same as needing,” he argued. “Those who need are the ones that you should be wary of.”

I patted his shoulder. “I will miss your words of wisdom.”

He chuckled. “I’ll get a spot on the wireless, if I stay in one piece.”

“I wish we could meet again.”

“Like in that song ‘we’ll meet again, don’t know where, don’t know when.” He started singing it, _sotto voce_.

“We will,” I whispered. “I can’t say why, but I am sure of it.”

The practicalities of boarding, the fear of being refused admission and the boys’ reluctance to leave _terra firma_, tempered the pathos of our parting. Elio couldn’t look Jack in the eye because his own were red-rimmed; he hugged him and wished him all the best then turned away, taking the boys and the kitten with him.

I shook Jack’s hand and demanded that he looked us up if he ever came to London. I scribbled my address on a piece of paper: he committed the information to mind and burned it.

“Force of habit,” he said, scratching the stubble on his chin.

“Keep out trouble,” I told him when it was time to part.

“Impossible,” he shot back, and with that he disappeared in the crowd.

The Lusitania was crammed with people like us, and for that reason we didn’t try to make new acquaintances. If anything happened, and questions were asked, we could truthfully plead ignorance. Our cabin provided only basic comforts, but the four bunk beds were decently clean and since I still had money, we could enjoy a marginally better menu. The kids were enchanted with everything: the constant motion, the water splashing against the sides of the ship, the incessant noise, but most of all, the idea that they were adventurers setting sail for lands unknown. Luckily, they didn’t suffer from sea-sickness, but the kitten had been shaking and mewling for hours before they got him to calm down.

While they were thus diverted, Elio took my hand and kissed the knuckles, one by one.

“We made it,” he murmured. “Portsmouth and then London: I can’t wait to see your place.” He came closer and whispered in my ear, “To sleep in your bed, in your sheets, surrounded by your stuff.”

I felt a distinctive tingle between my legs. “Stop it,” I groaned, ruffling his hair, which had started to curl again at the tips.

“Aren’t you excited?” he asked, placing his hand on my thigh, his thumb stroking the in-seam of my trousers.

“More than I should be, considering,” I replied, grabbing hold of his fingers before they got me even more worked up.

“I hope Papa will be alright,” he sighed. “And he won’t worry too much about us.”

“If the grapevine reached Peter, it will reach your father too,” I said, kissing Elio’s smooth cheekbone. “They’ll keep him safe.”

“I wonder when we’ll be together again,” he mused.

I sang him the Vera Lynn’s tune that Jack had mentioned on our way to Lisbon.

“That’s terribly sentimental,” he scowled, but the end of his nose had pinked, a feature that always betrayed Elio’s emotion.

“Ours is a tale that will be told by our kids to their kids, so I have every reason to be sentimental.”

We gazed at the two children doting over their shuddering feline and I had one of those visions of the future that are as vivid as they are impossible.

Portsmouth greeted us with a fine, freezing drizzle and skies worthy of a Constable painting. The hustle and bustle around the quay couldn’t disguise the destruction which surrounded us: entire areas had been razed to the ground and piles of rubble stood where buildings used to be. The air smelled of salt and smoke, and the faces we encountered were sallow and lined with worry.

At passport control, I was finally able to show my bona-fide documents. The border guard regarded me with something I hadn’t experienced before in my own country: admiration and respect.

“You got out of there alive,” he muttered.

“It was close, a couple of times,” I replied.

He cast a glance in Elio’s direction.

“Do you believe what they say about them camps?” he said, lowering his voice. “That they are, you know,” he sniffed loudly, mimicking the act of being gassed.

“I’m afraid it’s all true.”

He shook his head. “Terrible thing,” he commented, “They won’t get away with it, will they?”

“They already have,” I argued.

He returned my papers and those belonging to Elio and the children.

“You have a nice long rest, Sir, and your friends too.” He addressed Elio, speaking carefully as though to a slow-witted creature. “Welcome to England, Monsieur.”

“Very happy to be here,” Elio replied, with a beaming smile. “I love it already.”

The man nodded his approval and let us pass.


	51. A New Lease of Life

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Here we are, guys!!!!! Not at the end (still the epilogue to come) but almost there.  
They say steal from the best so I did pinch a thing or three from The Night Watch by Sarah Waters and a few real-life details and people from Slipstream, E J Howard's autobiography. No offence intended and all with the best intentions.
> 
> Oliver's POV

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thank you all for your patience and your support: you are the reason I kept writing even when my mood varied from grey to black.  
Apologies for having been sluggish with replies and updates but I did my best.

London, January 1943

“Not Debussy again,” muttered Wayland, from his usual spot in front of the drawing room's fireplace. Jacob, who had fallen in fervent love with him, was climbing up his back and giggling every time he slid down.

“Monkey, get back here,” the man chided, fake-annoyance colouring his voice. He had given Jacob the nickname and the boy did his best to live up to it.

Wayland Kennet was Sally’s boyfriend, and despite holding a job at the Admiralty – of which he never spoke thus engendering suspicions of it being merely a cover for spy work – he loved drawing and the arts in general. He adored children and always offered to babysit when Elio and I wanted an evening alone. He was twenty-five, with the wild hair of a Romantic poet and piercing cerulean eyes. Next to him, Sally seemed brash and almost masculine, but it was obvious that she was quite smitten with him.

The music came from the study, where Elio was teaching Julien on the Blüthner concert grand, which was our most recent acquisition.

My flat in the Old Brompton Road had survived the bombing, but the building had not been as fortunate: upon our return, we’d found that the top floor had been wrecked by incendiaries and the roof was close to collapsing.

Since many people had deserted London after the Blitz, the choice of housing was enormous and it took me only a handful of days to find our house in Rathbone Place.

Serendipity wanted that it had been built for refugees from the French revolution. It had spacious, airy rooms and a habitable cellar in the basement.

Elio had complained that it was “nastily modern” and the two bathrooms were hideous: black and strident pink all over.

We had covered the bedrooms’ walls with William Morris wallpaper: tiger-lilies for the boys’ and a plainer pattern for ours. Wayland had found us some red-and-cream damask for the drawing room and a large oval gilt-framed mirror, the latter from a shop on the Portobello Road for a paltry 30 shillings.

My debriefing at the Ministry had been awkward and filled with more silences than words. I had been reprimanded for taking the initiative against the orders I’d been given and been told in no uncertain terms that there was no question of retaining the job I had prior of going to France. I was offered a post with the Assistance Board, which had its offices at the Town Hall. There, I’d met a friend of Lord Stanley’s, architect Percy Standing, who was desperate for an assistant who was young and limber enough to lower himself “through the fanlight of wrecked houses, like Oliver Twist.”

“I know just the man,” I’d said, “But he’s not, well, he’s French.”

Standing had stared at me and nodded a couple of time before saying, “Jewish isn’t he? I have no issues with refugees as long as they can understand me when I speak to them. I’m afraid my French is rather poor.”

“He’ll manage,” I’d replied. In fact, at the time, I’d not suspected that Elio would take to his new role with the passion that he’d shown as soon as he'd accompanied Standing on his first survey.

It had been a house in Bryanston Square, near Baker Street. Elio had returned home with grazed knuckles, scuffed knees and a high colour in his cheeks.

“You should have seen it,” he’d enthused, “there was smashed glass everywhere, but the carpets and the furniture were virtually untouched. Percy said we should go back to inventory the lot, after he’s made sure the water pipes are sound.”

After that, it was always Percy this and Percy that, never Mr. Standing, and when we’d organised a small party just before Christmas, Elio had insisted we should invite him too. He'd come with his daughter Julia, a lively brunette who smoked like a chimney. They were friendly and effusive, and if they suspected what was going on between Elio and I, they never let it transpire.

I had met Luke Morris a week after my return to London. He had taken to frequenting the Players’ Club in Covent Garden and had become close friends with pianist Denis Matthews.

“He’s awfully depressed,” Luke had explained. “He’s forced to tour up and down the country, playing on ‘ghastly instruments’ and no one ‘decent’ to talk to about music.”

The Club played Victorian Music Hall songs and therefore I was spared the trouble of dancing.

Denis was a charming man with ginger hair and myopic brown eyes with dark circles under them.

After the third round of drinks, he and Elio had embarked on a whispered conversation about the merits of Khachaturian and the novels of Ronald Firbank. At the end of the evening, they were bosom friends and it was in his company that Elio had found the concert grand piano that held pride of place in our new home.

“Tell me about Gregory,” Sally said, one evening, while I accompanied her to her station in Dolphin Square. She had been moaning about the van she drove as ARP rescue warden, about the ignition being ‘buggered’, and by association she’d thought of test planes and of Peter.

“Top secret information,” I replied. “Loose lips, you know how it goes.”

“Oh, spare me,” she exclaimed.

“He’s safe and he’s learnt to speak French.”

She whistled. “You are being such a brick about it.”

“What is there to say? We both did what we had to do.”

“And who you had to do,” she smirked as she took the cigarette I offered her.

“Don’t be crass,” I quipped.

“Elio’s a dear and those kids,” she sighed, “I can’t even think about what they went through.”

“Wayland is broody: soon it will be your turn.”

She glared at me.

“I’m not starting a family while there’s a war still on. Besides, I love the thrill of going out every night and risking my life. You can’t do that when you have kids.”

“He’s a first-rate chap,” I said.

“Like him, do you?” she winked. “It’s the hair, I bet.”

I rolled my eyes at her. “I didn’t mean his looks, you silly witch.”

She laughed heartily. “I was teasing you,” she replied. “You only have eyes for that French angel and who am I to blame you? He’s a stunner.”

I felt the blush spread up my neck but it was dark so no one could notice it.

“I don’t know what we’ll do when this is over.”

She patted my arm. “You are not alone,” she said. “Let’s take it as it comes, one day at a time. We are alive and that’s all that matters.”

I looked at her more closely, noticed the tiny wrinkles at the corner of her eyes.

“You must see your share of horrors,” I murmured.

“The mortuary run is the worst,” she said, her voice gone hoarse. “Last week, they sent us out to collect the remains of a mother and three children. Those jaws with their tiny milk teeth,” she shuddered. I wrapped her in my arms for a moment.

“I don’t know how you can bear it,” I whispered.

“Someone has to,” she croaked.

There was no question of sending the children to boarding school, so we’d agreed to find them a private tutor. We’d settled on an elderly spinster named Chisholm, that Wayland had renamed Prism from Wilde’s The Importance of Being Earnest.

While the latter was scatter-brained and man-mad, Chisholm was imperturbable, efficient and utterly uninterested in the business of love-making.

She had the most remarkable talent in turning even the driest subject into a riveting narrative and she spoke French fluently albeit with a terrible accent.

Chisholm had been employed by Wayland’s family as a governess for his sisters and they had pensioned her off when she’d grown too old to work, but she felt she had to do her bit for her country. Her eyes had misted over as soon as she’d set eyes on Julien and Jacob, but the final point in her favour was that she adored cats: Boots had plopped down at her feet during her first lesson and hadn’t budged until she’d finished.

The night of 17th January, the Luftwaffe dropped bombs all over London, one of them close enough to rattle the glass of our bedroom mirror.

We rushed to the basement with kids and kitten and once they were tucked in and asleep, we opened a bottle of black market whisky.

“They can sleep through anything,” Elio remarked with a fond smile.

“To them, it’s all just one big adventure.”

He laid his head on my shoulder and nuzzled my neck. “They love it here, don’t they?”

“If we are not careful, Wayland will kidnap them and take them to his Sussex manor,” I joked.

“Julien wouldn’t go anywhere without the piano,” Elio argued, a note of pride in his voice. “He’s getting really good. Even Denis agreed and he’s ever so hard to please.”

“What was that about that composer you mentioned?”

“Tranchell?”

“No, that wasn’t the name; something starting with an ‘M’,” I said.

Elio laughed, tickling my throat with his breath. “Mephi for Mephistopheles, that’s what Denis calls him. That’s because he frequently sets fire to his composition.”

“On purpose?”

“No,” he chuckled. “Apparently he tends to forget that he’s smoking and the paper ends up scorched or worse.”

I vaguely remembered Sally speaking of him.

“Is that the chap that likes to wear a moth-eaten fur coat and rings up his mother pretending to be Proust?”

Elio climbed on my lap and licked the shell of my ear.

“That’s him,” he replied. “Do we have to keep talking?”

I shook my head and turned around to slip my tongue inside his mouth.

A week or so after that night, we received a post-card from France: on it was the drawing of bearded man that looked like the bust of Socrates held in a Neapolitan museum.

“That’s from your father,” I said, while Elio examined it. There was no message on it and it had been sent to me, care of the Ministry of Information.

“He posted it a month ago,” he said, frowning hard to keep from crying.

“We’ll find him, when the time comes.”

“Or he’ll find us,” he replied, caressing the inked outline of the philosopher’s beard.

Wayland and Sally had taken the children to Sussex for the week-end and Elio had dragged me through the wasteland of the City to show me the ruins of a church.

It was a cold and clear night and I’d hoped to spend it in bed with him, together with hot soup and red wine.

The last thing I wanted was to be stumbling through the wreckage of buildings, risking a broken leg or a bout of pneumonia.

“We’ll pour the soup and the wine into Thermos flasks,” he said, “And we have torches.”

In the end, I hadn’t had the heart to refuse him. I never could anyway.

We go lost once near Ludgate Circus, but Elio was familiar with the area since he’d been surveying nearby houses with Percy.

“St-Dunstan-in-the-East,” he explained, when we reached the elegant tower with its slender spire supported by arches. The body of the church was gutted, roofless: a wreck. “It was rebuilt by Wren after the fire of 1666.”

“I should know that,” I quipped, but the truth was that I didn’t.

“His daughter went up to lay the last stone and she lay down there to show that the tower was solid.”

“You’d have done the same.”

“I’m not sure I’d have been as fearless,” he replied.

We sat on a pile of bricks and admired the starlit sky. It was quiet, not even the ack-ack noise of the gunners marred the cloistral silence.

“You are courage personified, my love,” I said, kissing his cool cheek.

“Is it terrible that despite everything I’m so incredibly happy?”

I took his face in my hands and moved closer, until I could see his eyes in the beam of the torch.

“I’m happy too, so we can be terrible together,” I smiled.

“You are not too bored, chained to a desk instead of gallivanting around Europe?”

I pinched his nose. “I have you to provide the entertainment.”

“I’d have you come down fanlights with me, but you are too big for that.”

“No one’s ever complained before,” I bit back, arching one eyebrow.

He snorted, “I bet,” he drawled.

We soon forgot about the soup, but we sipped the wine and kissed and felt at peace with the world in all its madness.


	52. Where We Belong

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> It's done!!!!!! I cannot believe that I made it to the end!!!!  
Thank you all so much for staying with me through these interminable lockdown months and for being supportive and loving and amazing.
> 
> The boys have their happy ending and hopefully so will we.
> 
> Oliver's POV

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I will reply to all your comments as soon as possible, I promise. I read and cherish them all.

France, summer 1946

“Armand, Armand, please stop, Armand!” I shouted.

His lithe figure, a blurry shape disappearing among the linden trees, was like a beacon or a magnet; a siren call.

In the humid, breathless night, I reached out for him and he slithered away from my grasp.

The sky was starless but not dark: it was dappled with white clouds, shapes that seemed to float in that not-quite-blackness. I would have lingered with him, and held him in my arms, as we traced the patterns with our fingertips; I would have but he was gone, gobbled up by the night itself.

All of a sudden, the weight of his hand was on my shoulder. I turned around to face him: it was Elio’s countenance that looked back at me, his mouth that parted to say my name.

“Oliver, wake up,” his voice said.

His long curls tumbled over his forehead and there were freckles on the bridge of his nose.

“You were there, in my childhood,” I murmured and he gave me one of his puzzled looks that always make me want to tickle him until he shrieked for mercy.

I told him about my dream and he kissed the stubble on my chin.

“That’s because of Florence,” he said, and I nodded.

We had seen her in Paris: she was back to her former splendour, holding Thursday lunches for artists and intellectuals with her customary zest.

She had hugged the kids as though she’d really missed them and they had asked about Tully and been overjoyed when the Pekingese – fatter and less boisterous – had been summoned to their presence.

Despite her evident pleasure at seeing us alive and well, her warmest welcome had been for Samuel.

“Professor Perlman,” she had enthused, as he beamed at her from behind his reading glasses and begged her to call him Sammy, “I believe I read what you wrote for _Les Lettres Françaises_. Of course it wasn’t signed, but I’m sure it was your prose.”

They had chatted for a while, while Julien sat at the Pleyel grand and played Bach. Elio had tried and failed not to gaze at him.

“You know he doesn’t like it,” I had admonished him.

“Adolescents,” he’d sighed, rolling his eyes.

Julien was twelve but his voice had started to break and he got embarrassed if we were too demonstrative in public.

“You must have been the same if not worse,” I’d argued and he hadn’t denied it.

Jacob had played with Tully and ignored us all: he was an affectionate boy, untouched by the English reserve to which he’d been exposed for over three years.

“You don’t regret leaving Paris?” I asked Elio, as he poured me a cup of creamy coffee. 

I looked around, once again caught by a mixture of surprise and emotion at the familiarity of the room: the Watteau in its heavy frame, the silk cover on the boat-bed, the solid eaves. I still couldn’t quite believe that the occupation and bombings had not destroyed Le Domaine.

“We can go back anytime,” he replied. “Once you’ve finished writing your book.”

It was my turn to respond with an eye-roll. “There’s too much to do with the farm and the vineyard.”

He sat down next to me on the bed and bit my upper arm.

“Julien can help,” he said, “You’ve heard him,” he went on to imitate our eldest son’s lofty tones, nailing the way he said ‘daddy’ with the slightest French inflection.

“It will ruin his hands.”

“You’re not as worried about my hands,” Elio quipped, palming the outline of my morning erection.

“You can look after yourself,” I whispered, and we forgot about breakfast and kids for the next hour or so.

Our time in London had been wonderful, considering the circumstances: filled with friends, music, laughter, hard work and plans for the future. No one had paid us much attention: I was the man who’d rescued Jewish victims from certain death, and Elio was a competent architect risking his life to reclaim crumbling buildings. The boys were intelligent and polite and elicited pity and compassion.

Peace has put a stop to the liberality of wartime: questions were being asked, not by our closest friends, but by acquaintances and employers. Soon we’d have to justify our small family: why weren’t we getting married to women? Why weren’t the boys going back to their country?

Wayland’s brother had come to visit with his wife and she, a tall upper-class shrewd-eyed blonde, had insisted about throwing a party for us, “to bring you back into society,” she’d drawled, her voice like a nail scraping across a blackboard. Wayland had distracted her with gossip about Royalty, but I’d caught Elio’s jaundiced expression and made up my mind there and then.

That night in our bed, as we'd clasped each other tightly, I’d said, “Let’s go back to France. No one cares over there. They owe you after they’ve put you through and I can pretend again of being from Alsace.”

“The kids like it here and what about your friends? Won’t you miss them?”

“They are your friends too and don’t tell me you won’t miss old Percy and Denis. Besides, it’s not like they can’t come and stay with us whenever they feel like it.”

He’d nuzzled my throat and hummed.

“There is no other way,” I’d insisted. “I don’t want to pretend to be dating women, not after years of being your husband.”

Elio had moaned and brushed his pelvis against my hip: that word never failed to startle a reaction out of us both.

“But what will you do?” he had asked, later, _much_ later.

I’d wiped a smear of semen from the corner of my mouth and smirked. “Remember my book on Heraclitus?”

Samuel had telephoned us four weeks before the end of the war.

I’d answered it after the third ring, a bit annoyed because it had been late at night and Elio had only just returned, covered in dust and marching to the bathroom; I’d stalked after him, ready for a scene which I’d been rehearsing all evening. “Why didn’t you warn me, I was worried sick,” I’d started, but the phone had stopped me mid-rant, to Elio’s evident satisfaction.

“Hullo,” I’d barked into the received, and the switchboard operator had said something I hadn’t been able to catch; there had been the noise of static and then a man’s never-forgotten voice had said my name.

“Professor, is that you?” I had asked, stupidly.

His laughter had mended a crack in my heart whose existence I’d tried to conceal.

“I’m in Paris,” he'd said, breezily, as though he’d been on a cruise and finally decided it had been time to come home. “You are well, I hope? All of you.”

“Let me get Elio,” I’d replied, and shouted until Elio had emerged from the bathroom, a frown wrinkling his forehead.

“Your father,” I’d said, my eyes already wet responding to his joy, wishing for nothing more than being witness to his happiness, every day of my life.

A week after V-Day, Luke Morris had invited me to lunch at the club, but when I’d got there, sweaty and apologetic for my tardiness, I’d realised there was something more to it than mere desire for my company.

On the table was a folder marked “eyes only”.

“If this is about Elio,” I’d hissed, but he’d shaken his head.

“The kids,” he’d replied, asking the waiter for two whiskies, neat, no ice.

Inside there was evidence that the Duguays had been killed as soon as they’d arrived to the camp they’d been assigned to. They had been stamped with numbers, which I still remember today and probably will never forget till my dying day.

“We can’t tell them,” Elio had said. “Not until they are older.”

“If they ask, we shouldn’t lie to them.”

But they had not asked; they no longer did. They had started to call me Dad or Daddy and Elio was Papa, and we didn’t wish to upset their fragile equilibrium; and ours.

Percy Standing had begged Elio to stay.

“I’ll make sure you get a honorary citizenship, after what you’ve done for us,” he’d said, “Risked your life, nearly lost it a couple of times. And as for the other thing,” he’d added, alluding to our ménage, “If you are subtle about it, people will look the other way.”

The thing was, we didn’t want to be subtle about it, if subtle meant being touched by hands that weren’t those we longed for, whose touch we’d recognize while blindfold, that we _had_ recognized while blindfold.

During a visit to Wayland’s Sussex country house, Boots had fallen in lust with a ginger puss and had refused to return to London.

“You can stay here too,” Wayland had said, “For as long as you like.”

Elio and I had exchanged panicked looks, but had waited for Julien and Jacob to reply.

“But Chisholm was gonna talk to us about Ancient Egypt,” Jacob had protested.

“We could ask her to move here with us too,” Wayland had replied, “She knows this house already. And I have a piano,” he’d added, in order to woo Julien.

“Papa will get in trouble if we aren’t there,” the latter had argued, conclusively.

Elio had pretended to be offended but I’d not missed the loving looks he’d thrown at our eldest son, stealthy as he’d tried to be.

When we’d arrived at the Gare du Nord, Samuel had been waiting for us but he’d not been alone. Next to him was a dark-haired woman with kind brown eyes and an easy smile.

“Amandine,” she had introduced herself, shaking hands as though she hadn’t wished to presume we’d want to be hugged. “I bring gifts,” she’d announced, offering two slabs of American chocolate to the kids, and even Julien had forgotten that he was quite grown up and had flown up to her arms.

We’d had a heavenly lunch of steak frites and she’d told us her story, while Samuel observed her with adoring eyes: her husband had fought with the Resistance and died while she was hiding in the countryside, near to where Perlman was staying with Beckett. She spoke German and English and had worked as a translator.

“Your father needed looking after,” she’d said to Elio, “I hope you don’t mind me saying that.”

“Not at all,” he’d answered. “That’s what I was always telling him.”

“May I remind you that I’m sitting right here?” Samuel had quipped, evidently pleased with his lot in life.

Later, she’d taken me aside. “You and Elio are together,” she’d said, softly. “Sammy didn’t say a word but I have eyes and I’m not stupid. I don’t care what people do as long as it makes them happy and doesn’t hurt anybody. Besides, it’s none of my business. For what it’s worth, I think you make a beautiful couple.”

“We are a family,” I’d argued, admiring her creamy complexion and marvelling at how similar it was to Elio’s. “You’ll fit right in.”

“That’s very kind of you,” she’d smiled and squeezed my hand, like the mother I’d never had.

Lavaurette was like a convalescent patient awakening after a long illness. Some of the younger men had returned from the war, some were now in the FFI, ready to disown any allegiance they might have pledged to the enemy. Traitors and collaborators had been shot and hanged in the piazza by the cathedral and there lingered the scent of blood and dust, like in a Hemingway novel.

It was widely known that Elio had killed Benech and more than one person had bought us drinks to celebrate our return and to wash away the stain of having watched and done nothing.

The building where Elio’s office had been was boarded up.

“I wish Percy was here,” Elio chuckled. “He’d give them a piece of his mind.”

“Maybe the foundations are cracked,” I suggested.

“They didn’t want the Fritz to get inside,” said a woman’s voice.

“Juliette Bobotte as I live and breathe,” exclaimed Elio, kissing the woman’s cheeks.

She looked me in the eye and her lips curved in a crooked smile.

“You are in pristine shape,” she observed, not without irony.

“Hands off,” Elio chided.

“I was only stating the obvious,” she bit back. “Are you just visiting?”

“Not sure,” I replied. “We’d love to stay, if we can.”

She eyed the notices stuck to the boards.

“I wouldn’t mind getting back to office work,” she said, “If I have to babysit one more crying baby, I may well go insane. And there won’t be shortage of commissions for good architects, especially Jewish ones. You’ll have your pick.”

Elio’s eyes had twinkled.

“I’d love to finish that convent,” he said, and we all laughed.

Julien had asked to see his old house.

“We’ll go there first and see what’s left,” I suggested.

Samuel and Amandine had stayed out of it, tactful as ever.

Elio wasn’t convinced, but there was little we could do. The boys could always sneak out and go there if we tried to keep them away. I didn’t believe they’d do that, and Jacob wasn’t particularly interested anyway, but I thought that they shouldn’t be prevented from reconnecting with their past.

When we got there, we had the nasty surprise to find it razed to the ground.

“A bomb,” Juliette told us, “The entire neighbourhood went up in flames.”

When we told the kids, it was Jacob who spoke first. “But what about them, what if they came back and they had nowhere to go?” he said, in a tearful tone.

Elio and I exchanged glances: it was time to tell them.

I went up to our bedroom one night and Elio wasn’t there. I thought nothing of it until I found the note pinned to my pillow.

“Come and find me,” it said.

I smiled and ran to what had been our secret room.

He was spread out on the mattress, naked and smoking a cigarette.

“Want to hitch a ride?” he said, giving his hard prick a slow stroke.

“And they say romance is dead,” I laughed, my heart bursting with love.

**Author's Note:**

> If you enjoyed the chapter, please leave a kudos or a comment. It makes all the difference to me. I love you!!!!


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